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MY 
ORRAINE 
OURNAL 


■ 

LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 

PRESENTED  BY 


MRS.    THOMAS   A.    DRISCOLL 


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MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 


Books  by 
EDITH    O'SHAUGHNESSY 

A   DIPLOMAT'S  WIFE   IN    MEXICO. 
Illustrated. 

DIPLOMATIC  DAYS.     Illustrated. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS.  NEW  YORK 

[ESTABLISHED    1817] 


DUCAL    PALACE,    NANCY 


MY  LORRAINE 


"■ 


JOURNAL 


by 
EDITH   O'SHAUGHNESSY 

[MRS.  NELSON    O'SHAUGHNESSY] 

AUTHOR    OF 

"A  Diplomat's  Wife  in  Mexico" 
and  "Diplomatic  Days" 


ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER' y  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK    AND    LONDON 


/v' 


My  Lorraine  Journal 


Copyright.  1918,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  September,  1918 


K-8 


To 
Mrs.   William    H.   Crocker 

In  memory  of  a   lost  battle 

and  in  appreciation  of 

her  work  in  Lorraine 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Ducal  Palace,  Nancy Frontispiece 

Verdun  and  Vicinity Facing  p.     4 

Place  Stanislas,  Nancy 12 

Author  at  Vitrimont       "  30 

Cemetery,  Vitrimont 30 

The  Bridge  at  Luneville "  30 

Fountain  of  Amphitrite  by  Jean  Lamour,  Place  Stanis- 
las, Nancy "  38 

Souvenir  Menu  of  Luncheon  at  Verdun,  June  17,  1917  46 

Our  Party  on  the  Battle-field  at  Verdun,  June  17, 191 7  "  50 

In  the  Boyaux,  Verdun,  June  17,  191 7 "  50 

Sister  Julie "  124 

Bas-relief  of  the  Refugees "  124 

Miss  Polk's  Wedding "  162 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Foreword xi 


PART  I 

CHAP. 

I.  How  One  May  Happen  to  Go  to  the  Front   ....  3 

II.  Nancy 12 

III.  Luneville 18 

IV.  VlTRIMONT 22 

V.  Luneville  Again 28 

VI.  Gerbeviller  and  La  Sceur  Julie 33 

VII.  Bar-le-Duc 37 

VIII.  Verdun 42 

IX.  Chaxons. — Chateau  de  Jean  d'Heurs. — Revigny,  the 

"Lining"  of  the  Front 60 

X.  Mont  Frenet. — La  Champagne  Pouilleuse. — The  Re- 

turn        64 

PART  II 

I.  By  the  Marne 77 

II.  The  Canteen  at  Bar-le-Duc "87 

III.  Theatricals  and  Camouflage 97 

IV.  The  Burial  of  Pere  Cafard 108 

V.  A  Providential  Ford 112 

v 


CONTENTS 

PART    III 

LORRAINE   IN   AUTUMN 
u  V  elegante  et  melancolique  Lorraine" 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  Nancy  and  Molitor 121 

II.  Eighteenth-century  Emanations 131 

III.  Toul 144 

IV.  A  Stroll  in  Nancy 153 

V.  Vitrimont  in  Autumn 161 

VI.  At  the  Guerins' 167 

VII.  Across  Lorraine 174 

VIII.  The  Chalons  Canteen 182 


FOREWORD 

It  will  be  seen,  by  the  first  chapter,  how  fortuitous 
though  inevitable  was  the  writing  of  this  little  book, 
begun  before  the  American  troops  came  to  France;  yet 
it  happens  to  concern  that  part  of  the  war  zone  wherein 
our  men  are  preparing  themselves  for  battle,  and  which 
will  be  quickened  with  their  blood. 

The  time  has  scarcely  come  to  write  of  the  world  war ; 
indeed,  it  is  only  between  wars  that  one  can  write  of 
them,  when  wisdom,  with  accompanying  imagination, 
looks  down  the  great  perspectives;  now  men's  utmost 
energies  are  concentrated  upon  deeds  of  passion  per- 
formed in  hope  or  in  despair. 

Oliver's  Ordeal  by  Battle  of  191 5  remains  the  most 
scholarly  and  philosophic  of  the  war  books;  Masefield's 
Gallipoli  the  most  artistic.  But  even  these,  and  the 
many,  many  others,  give  not  so  much  a  sense  of  in- 
adequacy as  of  impossibility. 

Letters  from  strong  souls  undergoing  supreme  emo- 
tions have  emanated  from  the  trenches  or  the  air.  We 
have  mourned  young  perished  singers:  Rupert  Brooke, 
Alan  Seeger.  But  for  the  most  part,  and  so  it  must  be, 
war  books  are  limited  to  the  relation  of  personal  deeds 
and  sufferings,  and  descriptions  of  localities  where  they 
have  taken  place,  colored  more  or  less  by  the  tempera- 
ment of  each — even  as  I,  "en  passant  par  la  Lorraine" 
wrote  these  pages. 

Edith  Coues  O'Shaughnessy. 

33    RUE   DE  L'UNIVERSITE,  PARIS, 

January  19,  1918. 


PART    I 


MY  LORRAINE  JOURNAL 


CHAPTER   I 

HOW  ONE  MAY  HAPPEN  TO  GO  TO  THE  FRONT 

Paris,  Thursday,  June  7,  1917. 

EVEN  personal  events  have  their  outriders,  and  this 
is  how  an  unexpectant  lady,  still  fiancee  to  Mexico, 
received  from  Destiny  various  indications  that  she  was 
to  go  there  where  men,  ten  thousand  upon  ten  thousand, 
lay  down  their  lives  pro  patria.  Like  everything,  it  was 
simple  when  it  had  happened. 

At  the  Foire  Saint-Sulpice,  where  I  was  serving  at  the 
tea-stall,  I  met  E.  M.  C,  whom  I  thought  in  California. 
After  greetings  (we  had  not  seen  each  other  since  the 
fatal  month  of  October,  1916)  she  said  to  me: 

"You  must  come  down  to  Luneville  where  I  have  a 
house,  and  visit  the  village  of  Vitrimont,  that  mother  is 
rebuilding." 

I  answered:  "My  dear,  I'm  still  tied  to  Mexico,  and 
I  can  see  my  publishers  frowning  all  the  way  across  the 
ocean  if  the  second  much-promised,  long-delayed  book 
doesn't  arrive.  I  oughtn't  even  to  peep  at  anything  else 
for  the  moment." 

Then,  tea  victims  beginning  to  crowd  in,  "business  as 
usual"  engaged  us  and  we  parted. 

When  I  got  home  I  found  that  Joseph  Reinach,  met 

3 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

but  once — Polybe  of  the  delightful  Commentaires — had 
sent  me  his  brochure,  Le  Village  ReconstituL  I  still 
didn't  hear  the  outriders  galloping  down  the  street. 

In  the  evening  I  dined  chez  Laurent  with  Mr.  C, 
known  in  Mexico.  When  I  got  there  I  found  that  his 
sister,  Madame  Saint-R.  T.,  Pr6sidente  de  La  Renais- 
sance des  Foyers,  was  going  into  Lorraine,  to  Luneville 
itself,  the  next  day ;  conversation  was  almost  entirely  of 
the  practical  work  to  be  done  in  the  devastated  districts, 
and  the  deeply  engaging  philosophie  de  la  guerre,  of  how 
one  had  not  only  to  rebuild  villages,  but  to  remake  souls 
and  lives. 

A  quoi  bon  donner  des  chemises?  Give  tools  and  im- 
plements, or  a  brace  of  rabbits,  that  nature  may  take 
its  course  and  the  peasant  can  say,  "Soon  I  will  have  a 
dozen  rabbits,  and  twenty-five  francs  that  I  have 
earned." 

Some  one  observed  that  it  really  would  be  the  rab- 
bits, however — it  is  any  living,  productive  thing  that  is 
of  account,  beyond  all  else,  in  the  dead  and  silent  places 
of  devastation,  and  gifts  of  twelve  chickens  and  one 
cock  are  demanded  rather  even  than  shoes. 

As  we  were  pleasantly  dining  in  the  garden,  and 
philosophizing  sometimes  with  tears,  sometimes  smiles, 
a  terrific  thunder-storm  broke  over  Paris,  and  we  all 
crowded  into  the  big  central  room,  with  piles  of  hastily 
torn-off,  muddy  table-linen.  We  sat  talking,  however, 
till  they  turned  both  ourselves  and  the  lights  out.  As 
we  parted,  Madame  Saint-R.  T.'s  last  words  were, 
"But  try  to  come  down  to  Luneville." 

I  thought  to  myself  that  night,  "Things  are  getting 
hot."  I  believe  in  signs  from  heaven,  and  signs  from 
heaven  are  not  to  be  neglected. 

On  Saturday,  when  E.  M.  stopped  by  for  me  to  go 
again  to  the  Foire,  I  said: 

4 


TO   THE    FRONT 

"I  believe  I  will  go  to  Luneville.  What  does  one  do 
about  papers?" 

We  straightway  went  to  the  Rue  Francois  Premier, 
not  being  in  the  manana  class,  either  of  us,  and  found 
there  a  charming  specimen  of  jeunesse  doree,  intellectual, 
"sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought,"  but  do- 
ing his  bit.  Shears  for  the  cutting  of  red  tape  were 
liberally  applied,  and  my  papers  were  promised  in  an 
unprecedented  three  days. 

As  we  "swept"  out  I  said  to  E.  M.,  "You  don't 
think  we  were  too  strenuous?" 

She  said,  ' '  Oh,  they  are  used  to  us  now,  though  it  was 
a  thrilling  moment  when  you  ripped  your  photograph 
(such  a  photograph!)  from  the  duplicate  of  your  pass- 
port!" 

The  aforementioned  charming  specimen,  M.  de  P., 
had  said  a  photograph  was  essential;  it  was  Saturday 
afternoon,  the  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  for  some  unex- 
plained reason  photographers  don't  seem  to  work  in 
France  on  Mondays,  at  least  not  in  war-time. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  E.  M.  said,  in  a  degag6 
way:  "I  am  going  down  to  Verdun  with  a  friend.  It's 
awfully  difficult,  and  the  women  who  have  been  there 
can  be  counted  on  one's  fingers.  I  wish  you  could  go, 
too." 

I  said,  "That's  out  of  the  question."  But  I  thought 
to  myself,  "We  will  see  what  Fate  decides."  It's  a  great 
thing  to  keep  astride  of  her,  anyway. 

On  account  of  Sunday  coming  in  between,  my  papers 
could  not  be  ready  in  time  for  me  to  leave  with  her  on 
Tuesday  (they  have  to  be  sent  to  the  Quartier -General 
to  be  stamped),  but  they  were  promised  for  Wednesday 
that  I  might  start  for  Luneville  on  Thursday.  I  went 
to  see  E.  M.  at  her  aunt's,  the  Princess  P.'s,  on  Mon- 
day night  for  a  few  last  words  and  injunctions.  I  found 
2  5 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

her  after  passing  through  some  lovely  dove-gray  rooms 
with  priceless  old  portraits  of  Polish  great,  hanging  on 
silvery  walls,  and  rare  bibelots  and  porcelains  discreetly 
scattered  on  charming  tables  rising  from  gray  carpetings. 
She  greeted  me  by  saying,  "It's  all  arranged  for  you  to 
go  to  Verdun,  too." 

"Verdun!"  I  cried.     "Glory  and  sorrow  of  France!" 
I  didn't  ask  how,   but  thought  of  the  harmonious 
working  of  chance  that  brings  as  many  gifts  as  blows 
in  its  train. 

♦ 

Thursday,  June  14th,  10.30  a.m. 

We  slipped  out  of  the  station,  flooded  with  waves  of 
blue-clad  men,  at  eight  o'clock,  and  since  then  there 
has  been  a  constant  stopping  of  the  train  in  green,  glade- 
like places  to  let  troop-trains  pass.  A  while  ago  I  found 
myself  looking  out  on  a  river,  and  a  shiver  went  over 
me.     It  was  the  jade-colored,  slow-flowing  Marne. 

White  morning-glories  are  thick  on  every  hedge,  and 
wild  roses  such  as  grow  in  New  England  lanes,  and  there 
are  many  thistles,  soft  and  magenta-colored;  lindens, 
acacias,  and  poplars  abound  and  hang  delicately  over 
the  banks  of  the  river. 

Lying  open  on  my  lap  is  the  Revue  de  Paris  of  June 
1st,  but  I  can't  read  even  the  beautiful  "Lettres  d'un 
Officier  Italien" — (Giosue  Borsi  1),  breathing  a  deep 
spirit  of  conformity  to  the  will  of  God  and  showing  the 
evolution  that  many  an  intellectuel  catholique  of  his 
generation  has  gone  through  in  Italy.  In  his  dug-out 
were  Dante,  Homer,  Ariosto,  the  Gospels,  St.  Augustine, 
Pascal,  and  he  Manuel  du  Parfait  Caporal  et  les  Secours 
d'  Urgence.     And  he  loved  his  mother  and  let  her  know  it. 

All  along  the  route  are  villages  and  peaceful  country 
houses,  near  the  train,  bowered  in  acacia  and  linden; 

1  Killed  10th  November,  1915,  at  Zagora,  at  the  head  of  his  battalion. 

6 


TO   THE    FRONT 

elder-bushes  are  in  full  bloom,  too,  and  we  pass  many 
green  kitchen  gardens.  Women  are  shaking  blankets 
out  of  windows,  and  looking  at  the  train  going  to  the 
front,  thinking,  who  shall  say  what  thoughts? 

Later. 

Big  movement  of  troops  is  delaying  us,  and  it  has  been 
a  morning  spent  among  emerald-green  hills,  pale,  like 
Guatemalan  or  Bolivian  emeralds,  not  like  the  deep- 
colored  gems  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  Everywhere  are 
patches  of  blue-clad  men,  marching  down  white  roads 
between  green  fields  melting  into  the  blue  sky  at  the 
point  of  the  eyes'  vision.  Still  others  are  bathing  in  the 
pale,  warm  Marne  or  resting  on  its  banks.  Trains  go 
past  loaded  with  battered  autos,  camions  and  guns 
coming  from  the  front,  or  others  with  neatly  covered, 
newly  repaired  machines  of  death,  going  out. 

All  were  silent  in  the  train  at  first.  "  Mtfiez-vous,  les 
oreilles  ennemies  vous  ecoutent"  is  the  device  placarded 
everywhere.  In  my  coupe  some  one  feeling  slightly, 
very  slightly,  facetious,  had  rubbed  out  the  first  two 
letters  of  oreilles,  changed  the  first  '  V  into  an  "/,"  so 
that  it  read,  "  Mefiez-vous,  les  filles  ennemies  vous  6cou- 
tent."     The  ruling  passion  strong  in  death! 

We  pass  Epernay,  whose  little  vine-planted  hills  had 
run  red,  before  the  treading  out  of  its  19 14  wine,  with  the 
blood  of  English  and  French  heroes. 

At  last  we  began  to  talk,  a  dark-eyed  colonel  of  in- 
fantry with  the  Grand'  Croix  de  la  Legion  d'Honneur 
having  reached  down  my  bag  for  me. 

It  is  a  historic  date  for  France  and  for  ourselves. 

The  night  before,  General  Pershing  arrived  in  Paris, 
with  his  guerdon  of  help,  mayhap  salvation.  All  the 
newspapers  had  pictures  of  him  and  his  staff,  their 
reception  at  the  station,  the  crowd  before  the  H6tel 

7 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

Crillon.  One  officer  told  the  story  of  the  woman  in  the 
crowd  who  was  so  little  that  there  wasn't  the  slightest 
chance  of  her  seeing  anything  or  anybody.  When  asked 
why  she  was  there  she  answered,  "Mais  j'aurai  assiste," 
and  that,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  epitome  and  epitaph  of 
the  generation  whose  fate  it  is  to  see  with  their  eyes 
the  world  war. 

In  the  Station,  Chalons-sur-Marne,  2.30  p.m. 

Extreme  heat.  Train  four  hours  late  on  account  of 
the  movement  of  troops.  Wave  after  wave  of  horizon 
blue  undulates  through  the  station.  They  are  lying 
about,  standing  about,  sitting  about — the  poilus.  Half 
hidden  by  their  equipment,  their  countless  bundles  tied 
around  their  waists,  slung  on  their  shoulders,  under  their 
arms,  they  seem  indescribably  weary  and  dusty,  turned 
toward  the  blazing  front  where  the  best  they  can  hope  is 
la  bonne  blessure — theirs  not  to  reason  why.  Sometimes 
30,000  pass  through  Chalons  in  a  day. 

Now  it  comes  to  me  that  our  men — our  fresh,  eager, 
beautiful  young  men,  such  as  I  saw  disembark  at  Vera 
Cruz — will  pass  through  this  same  station  to  that  same 
blazing  front.  .  .  . 

By  my  window,  on  the  siding,  is  passing  an  endless 
train  of  box-cars,  with  four  horses  in  the  ends  of  each 
car.  Between  the  horses'  forefeet,  pale-blue  groups  of 
men  are  crowded;  no  room  to  lie,  scarcely  to  sit — 
cramped,  hot,  with  their  eternal  accoutrement.  One 
bent  group  was  playing  cards,  the  horses'  heads  above 
them.  But  mostly  they  are  looking  out  at  people  who 
are  not  called  upon  to  die. 

Later. 

Pangs  of  hunger  began  to  assail  me  as  the  train  pulled 
out.    I  went  into  the  dining-car  and  had  a  modest, 

8 


TO   THE    FRONT 

belated  repast  of  cenfs  sur  le  plat,  cheese  and  fruit. 
At  the  tables  were  groups  of  uniformed  men  talking  in 
low  voices  of  what  had  been  and  what  might  have  been. 
As  I  looked  out  of  the  window,  while  waiting,  my  eyes 
fell  upon  the  first  band  of  prisoners  I  had  seen — tall, 
stalwart  men,  wearing  the  round  white  cap  with  its 
band  of  red — at  work  on  the  roads,  those  veins  and  ar- 
teries of  France. 

An  officer,  once  the  most  civilian  of  civilians,  look- 
ing like  the  pictures  of  Alexandre  Dumas  fits  on  the 
covers  of  cheap  editions  of  La  Dame  aux  Camelias,  with 
bushy  hair  parted  on  one  side,  mustache,  and  stubby 
Napoleon,  broad  face  and  twinkling  eyes,  pointed  out 
Sermaize,  the  first  of  the  devastated  villages  we  passed, 
which  has  been  rebuilt  by  the  English  Society  of  Friends. 
"Conscientious  objectors"  don't  intend  to  let  the  sons 
of  Mars  do  everything,  but  they  can't  keep  pace  with 
the  destruction.  In  Le  Village  Reconstitue  M.  Reinach 
speaks  of  the  ugliness  of  the  models  proposed  to  the 
victims,  which  pass  understanding,  and  says  that  even 
the  vocabulary  of  Huysmans  would  not  suffice  to  give 
the  least  idea  of  them.  What  the  peasant  wants  is 
"mon  village'''  which  doesn't  at  all  resemble  what  the 
commis  voyageur  en  laideur  proposes. 

Revigny,  4.30  p.m. 

I  have  seen  the  first  black  crosses  in  a  green  field 
bounded  by  clumps  of  poplar  against  the  clear  sky. 
Revigny  is  a  mass  of  ruins,  roofless  houses,  heaps  of  mor- 
tar, and  endless  quantities  of  blue-clad,  heavily  laden 
men  coming  and  going  in  the  station — the  eternal  wait- 
ing, waiting  for  transit.  Revigny  is  on  the  road  to 
Verdun,  Alexandre  Dumas  fils  told  me.  He  gets  out  at 
Bar-le-Duc,  which  is  now  the  point  of  departure  to  the 
fateful  fortress.     Groups  of  yellow  Annamites  are  work, 

9 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

ing  at  the  roads.     They  are  imported  for  that  purpose, 
being  of  little  use  when  the  cannon  sounds. 

Awhile  ago  two  young  Breton  under-officers,  colonials, 
came  into  the  compartment.  They  had  been  at  school 
together  and  had  not  met  for  ten  years  until  just  now 
on  the  train.  They  watched  together  the  shifting  scen- 
ery ;  one  was  coming  from  a  young  wife,  the  other  from 
a  fiancee. 

GONDRECOURT. 

Two  symmetrical  fifteenth-century  towers  pierce  a 
pale-blue  sky.  One  of  the  young  Bretons  tells  me  that 
for  some  time  the  train  has  been  making  a  great  detour, 
as  the  straight  line  to  Nancy  would  take  it  through 
Commercy,  daily  bombarded  by  the  enemy. 

Pagny,  5.30  o'clock  p.m. 
Here  we  pick  up  the  Meuse — and  there  still  follows 
us  the  pink-and-gray  ribbon  of  willow-fringed  canal  that 
links  the  Marne  to  the  Rhine,  and  which  all  day  long 
has  looked  like  the  marble  the  Italians  call  cipollino. 
But  I  remember  that  its  greenness  has  been  but  lately 
colored  with  a  crimson  dye. 

Toul  {where  we  thread  up  the  Moselle),  5.50. 

We  have  just  passed  Toul.  Great  barracks  are  near 
the  station,  and  on  the  opposite  hill  is  the  fortress,  high 
against  the  sky.  bound  to  Verdun  by  an  uninterrupted 
series  of  forts.  It  is  a  place  de  guerre  de  premiere  classe. 
The  Romans  had  an  encampment  here,  and  Vauban 
made  the  fortifications  of  his  time. 

And  because  the  mind  is  not  always  held  to  the 
thing  in  view,  even  though  it  be  of  great  moment,  I 
thought  how  Toul  was  the  town  where  Hilaire  Belloc 
did  his  military  service,  "was  in  arms  for  his  sins"; 
from  here  it  was  that  he  set  out  upon  the  "path  to 

10 


TO   THE    FRONT 

Rome"  in  fulfilment  of  his  vow.  Other  things  laid  long 
away  in  memory  came  to  mind,  and  I  was  only  jerked 
back  as  my  eye  was  caught  by  a  group  of  German 
prisoners  being  marched  past  the  station,  one  soldier, 
with  a  pointed  bayonet,  in  front  of  them  and  another 
behind. 

And  at  Nancy  we  are  to  knit  up  the  river  Meurthe. 


CHAPTER  II 

NANCY 

NANCY,  a  dream  of  the  eighteenth  century,  with  the 
reveill6  of  twentieth-century  gun 

We  arrived  at  Nancy  five  hours  late,  at  seven  o'clock. 

No  sign  of  E.  M.,  no  sign  of  anything  familiar.  For- 
tunately I  was  flanked  by  Brittany,  and  a  stout  heart 
did  the  rest.  When  we  found  that  the  next  train  for 
Luneville  would  leave  at  nine  o'clock,  I  asked  them  to 
dine  with  me  and  take  a  little  walk  about  the  town. 
Our  luggage — we  were  all  traveling  light,  I  with  a  hand- 
bag and  flat  straw  valise,  they  with  two  iron  helmets — 
was  given  to  the  consigne  and,  after  my  sauj-conduit  had 
been  stamped  in  three  separate  places,  we  departed. 

The  square  before  the  station  was  surging  with  the 
usual  pale-blue  waves,  and  as  we  crossed  it  the  odor 
of  leather  and  tired  feet  and  hot  men  was  a  good  deal 
stronger  than  the  linden  scent.  We  passed  a  very  banal 
statue  of  Thiers,  Liber ateur  du  Territoire,  and  some  hor- 
rors of  art  nouveau.  A  construction  with  colored-glass 
windows  and  unnatural  cupolas  and  gilding  and  mushy 
outlines  protruded  from  a  corner,  and  its  name,  for  its 
sins,  was  Hotel  Excelsior.  But  we  were  searching  for 
the  celebrated  Place  Stanislas.  After  asking  a  passer- 
by, we  were  directed  to  a  street  whose  name  I  have  for- 
gotten, and  we  started  down  its  rather  distinguished 
length  of  gray,   well-built  houses  of  another  century, 

12 


NANCY 

tnany  of  them  having  the  double  Lorraine  cross  in  red 
to  indicate  cellar  accommodations,  with  the  number  they 
could  shelter. 

When,  suddenly,  we  stepped  into  the  Place  Stanislas, 
I  almost  swooned  with  joy.  I  was  in  full  eighteenth 
century,  in  the  midst  of  one  of  its  most  perfect  creations, 
with  the  low  boom  of  the  twentieth-century  guns  in  the 
distance. 

Quickly  my  spirit  was  ravished  from  the  world  of 
combat  into  the  still,  calm,  beautiful  world  of  art,  with- 
in the  enchantments  of  the  grilles  of  Jean  Lamour.  A 
sensation  sweet,  satisfying,  unfelt  since  the  beginning  of 
the  war,  invaded  me.  I  gazed  entranced  upon  that  deli- 
cate tracery  of  wrought  iron,  like  some  rich  guipure,  at  the 
four  corners  of  the  square  of  buildings,  its  lovely  gilding 
reflecting  a  soft  light;  and,  outlined  against  a  heaven 
colored  especially  for  them — pale  blue,  with  threads  of 
palest  pink,  and  a  hint  of  gray  and  yellow — were  urns 
and  torches  and  figures,  half  human,  half  divine,  sup- 
porting them.  The  beautiful  fountains  in  the  corners 
were  banked  with  sand-bags,  but  their  contours  were  in 
harmony  with  the  other  grilles,  and  one  was  surmounted 
by  an  Amphitrite,  the  other  by  a  Neptune.  It  was  all 
a  symbol  of  a  state  of  mind,  a  flowering  of  feeling,  to 
which  had  been  vouchsafed  a  perfection  of  expression. 

There  is  an  Arc  de  Triomphe,  put  up  by  Stanislas  at 
one  end,  in  honor  of  his  kingly  son-in-law,  in  front  of 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  a  statue  of  Stanislas  himself  in 
the  middle,  bearing  the  name  "Stanislas,"  the  date 
of  1 83 1,  and  "La  Lorraine  Reconnaissante."  In  looking 
about,  my  eye  fell  on  the  Restaurant  Stanislas,  dans  la 
note,  certainly,  and  I  decided  to  dine  there.  We  found 
that  we  had  time  to  investigate  a  little  further,  and 
turned  down  by  the  cafe  into  a  most  lovely  linden- 
scented  square  called  Place  de  la  Carriere.     Through  the 

13 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

double  lines  of  trees  between  the  fountains  at  the  farther 
end  was  visible  an  old  palace,  and  the  square  was  flanked 
by  houses  that  courtiers  only  could  have  lived  in.  It 
all  cried  out,  "Stay  with  me  awhile."  An  old  park  was 
at  one  side,  with  trees  planted  en  quinconce  l — chest- 
nuts, ash,  trembling  poplars — and  everywhere  was  the 
penetrating  fragrance  of  the  lindens.  It  was  so  sweet 
and  loosening  under  the  shade,  after  the  long  hot  day 
in  the  train,  that  the  young  officers  began  to  talk,  one 
of  his  fiancee  waiting  in  Les  Landes,  the  other  of  his 
wife  of  a  year,  seen  only  twice  seven  days.  And  then 
again  we  were  silent,  and  under  the  flowering  trees  I 
was  seized  with  a  great  longing  for  the  beautiful  and 
calm,  for  the  arts  and  ways  of  Peace.  It  seemed  to  me 
I  could  not  longer  think  of  this,  that,  or  the  other  "offen- 
sive," but  that  I  must  see  before  my  eyes,  hear  with 
my  ears,  feel  with  my  touch,  the  lovely,  the  melodic, 
the  benign.  0  bon  Jesus!  Not  of  the  battle-fields,  not 
of  reformes,  of  limbless,  sightless  men,  not  of  starving, 
frightened  children,  not  of  black-robed  women,  not  of 
lonely  deaths,  not  of  munition-factories.  What  is  this 
world  we  are  in? 

I  don't  know  how  long  we  were  silent,  but  at  last  one 
of  the  young  men  said,  "We  must  think  of  the  hour." 
Then  came  a  glancing  at  wrist  watches,  rattling  of 
identity  disks,  and  we  went  back  to  the  cafe  and  got  a 
table  by  the  window,  where  we  could  look  out  on  the 
lovely,  calm  ensemble  and  the  fading  sky.  The  menu 
was  brought ;  it  was  a  meatless  day,  but  with  a  snap  of 
the  eye  the  waiter  recommended  oeufs  d  la  geUe.  We 
understood  later,  when  we  found,  concealed  in  the  bot- 
tom of  each  little  dish  under  the  egg,  a  thick,  round 
piece  of  ham.  Fried  perch,  new  potatoes,  salad,  straw- 
berries and  cream,  with  the  celebrated  macarons  of 
1  Planted  so  that  any  vista  represents  the  Roman  numeral  V. 

14 


NANCY 

Nancy — des  Sacurs  Macarons,  as  the  little  piece  of  paper 
underneath  each  says — made  a  delicious  menu.  A  cer- 
tain petit  vin  gris  du  pays  had  been  recommended  us 
with  another  snap  of  the  eye. 

As  we  sat  waiting,  one  of  the  officers  exclaimed  at  a 
giant,  lonely,  priestly  figure  passing  through  the  Place: 

"Le  voila,  Vaumdnier  du  52^." 

I  said,  "Do  run  after  him  and  ask  him  for  dinner, 
too." 

He  came  back  with  the  young  man  and  we  had  a 
most  enjoyable  repast.  The  chaplain  knew  all  the 
things  about  Nancy  that  we  didn't.  He  was  a  huge, 
bearded  man,  who  might  have  been  with  the  hosts  of 
Charlemagne,  and  was  a  native  of  Commercy,  where 
Stanislas  used  to  go  with  his  court.  The  two  Bretons 
were  very  Catholic  and  very  royalist;  when  I  remarked 
upon  it,  they  said,  simply,  "Oh,  we  are  all  that  way,  par 
la,"  and  they  spoke  names  of  great  men  born  in  Brittany, 
and  the  aumdn  er  told  tales  of  near  yesterdays  surpassing 
those  of  the  heroic  age.  The  gayest  of  the  Bretons,  he  who 
had  not  just  left  his  young  wife  and  his  child  unborn, 
began  to  sing,  "Void  tin  sone  tout  nouveau"  and  sud- 
denly it  was  a  quarter  before  nine  and  we  had  time  only 
for  a  dash  to  the  station  d'une  bonne  allure  militaire, 
which  left  me  breathless.  The  nine-o'clock  train  didn't, 
however,  leave  till  ten,  as  it  was  waiting  for  the  Paris 
train,  which  didn't  arrive  at  all.  Finally,  in  a  strange 
heat,  vagaries  of  lightning  without  thunder  or  rain — 
the  thunder  we  did  hear  wasn't  the  old-time,  pleasant, 
celestial  sort,  but  something  with  an  easily  traceable, 
regular,  decisive  sound — we  pulled  out  of  the  station, 
I  not  knowing  where  I  was  going — no  address  in  the 
town  of  Luneville. 

A  thick,  heavy,  soft,  enveloping  night  was  about  us. 

Groups  of  soldiers  were  lying,  sitting,  standing  in  the 

15 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

little  stations.  We  stopped  every  few  minutes,  and  I 
could  distinguish  them  by  the  light  of  cigarette  or 
lantern  on  their  guns  and  equipment,  waiting  for  motors 
to  take  them  to  the  trenches.  At  one  place  I  had  to 
descend  to  show  my  sanf -conduit;  it  was  inspected  and 
stamped  by  the  flickering  light  of  a  blue-veiled  lantern, 
and  I  climbed  in  again.  I  was  beginning  to  feel  a  bit 
tired,  and  the  end  was  not  in  sight. 

We  descended  at  Lunevillc  in  complete  darkness,  a 
motley  crowd  of  military  and  civilians.  My  com- 
panions were  due  at  different  points  at  dawn — Baccarat 
and  the  Forest  of  Parroy.  As  I  write,  they  are  in  the 
trenches.  They  put  me  into  the  hands  of  a  commissaire 
who  said  he  lived  opposite  E.  M.'s.  I  waited,  standing 
by  the  door,  while  he  locked  up  the  station,  looking 
out  on  the  silhouette  of  a  gutted,  roofless  house,  showing 
dimly  against  the  soft  night  sky.  At  last  there  was  a 
sound  of  rattling  of  keys  and  the  commissaire  picked  me 
and  my  luggage  up.  We  started  forth,  the  only  human 
beings  visible,  in  what  seemed  a  deserted  town — no 
lights  in  streets  or  houses. 

As  we  passed  a  wide  open  space  the  scent  of  flowering 
lindens  enveloped  me,  and  with  me  walked  the  ghosts 
of  lovely  and  too-amiable  ladies,  of  witty  rulers  loving 
the  arts  as  well  as  women — Duke  Leopold  and  Madame 
de  Craon,  King  Stanislas  and  Madame  de  BourHers,  and 
Voltaire  and  Madame  du  Chatelet. 

We  walked  seemingly  through  the  entire  town  toward 
a  freshness  of  parks,  and  in  darkness  we  arrived  before 
a  garden  gate;  silence,  and  the  bell  nowhere  to  be 
found.  After  looking  for  it  in  the  light  of  various 
matches — vainly,  of  course — the  commissaire  had  the 
brilliant  idea  of  going  to  the  house  next  door,  la  maison 
de  M.  le  Maire,  the  celebrated  M.  Keller.  A  woman 
came  out  and  showed  the  bell  where  nobody  would  ever 

16 


NANCY 

have  thought  of  looking  for  it,  and,  furthermore,  masked 
by  vines.  The  door  was  finally  opened  by  a  tall,  slender, 
white-robed  figure  with  two  black  braids  showing  over 
her  shoulders  and  a  floating  scarf.  I  thought  it  a  vision 
of  Isolde,  but  it  proved  to  be  Miss  P.,  who  cried: 

"We  had  given  you  up!  We  waited  at  Nancy  till 
the  train  came  in,  and  then  had  to  motor  back  as  quicldy 
as  possible  on  account  of  the  lights." 

I  went  in,  to  find  E.  M.  in  a  most  becoming,  slinky, 
pale-blue  satin  neglige,  also  with  braids  on  her  shoulders. 
I'd  rather  have  found  them  both  in  paniers,  shaking  the 
powder  out  of  their  hair.  However,  I  can't  complain; 
it  was  all  pretty  good  as  regards  the  stage-setting.  We 
embraced.  I  explained  that  various  zealous  guardians 
of  the  gates  of  Nancy  had  stamped  my  sauf -conduit, 
and,  as  I  was  certainly  the  only  one  of  my  species  arriv- 
ing by  that  train,  they  should  have  given  news  of  me 
when  asked  concerning  une  Americaine.  Then,  as  the 
only  healthy  rooms  in  Luneville  in  191 7  are  on  the 
ground  floor,  I  departed  to  one  that  had  been  retained 
for  me  at  the  Hotel  des  Vosges.  Again  through  the 
soft-scented  night,  guided  by  my  commissaire,  to  a  room 
of  extreme  cleanliness  and  a  most  comfortable  bed. 

It  is  2  a.m.  I  am  too  tired  to  sleep.  My  mind  is 
jacked  up  by  all  the  twists  and  turns  of  the  day.  I 
have  been  reading  the  Cour  de  Luneville,  by  Gaston 
Maugras,  found  in  my  room,  belonging  to  E.  M. 

Three  o'clock.  Soft,  very  soft  booming  of  cannon, 
and  a  deep-toned  bell.  But  no  "poppy  throws  around 
my  bed  its  lulling  charities." 


. ' 


CHAPTER   III 


LUNEVILLE 

1UNEVILLE,  a  dream  of  fair  women  of  old  and  new 
J  times,  linden  scents,  and  circling  Taubes  and  little 
white  puffs  of  shrapnel  against  blue  skies. 

•  •••... 

Hotel  des  Vosges,  June  15th,  8  a.m. 

Have  just  breakfasted  to  the  gentle  accompaniment 
of  firing  on  a  Taube. 

Dear  old  village  life  began  at  an  early  hour,  but  of 
course  the  Taube  put  the  cocks  and  the  carts  and  the 
geese  and  all  the  other  usual  auroral  sounds  quite  in 
the  background. 

My  breakfast  service  is  decorated  with  the  same 
double  cross  of  Lorraine  that  I  saw  on  various  houses 
in  Nancy  indicating  comfortable  cellar  accommodation. 
The  cross  with  the  char  don  lorrain  (Lorraine  thistle)  is 
everywhere. 

Popping  and  cannonading  going  on  at  a  lively  rate, 
and  whir  of  aero  wheels;  a  beautiful  day.  Some  little 
white  puffs  of  shrapnel  visible  from  my  window;  I 
must  get  dressed  and  investigate. 

Cannonading  just  stopped.  I  don't  know  whether  he 
got  off  or  was  got. 

The  hotel  is  discreet  and  clean,  avec  itn  petit  air. 

It  has  been  a  good  house  of  the  good  epoch,  and  over 

18 


LUNEVILLE 

each    window    are    diverse    and    charming    eighteenth- 
century  motifs  in  gray  stone. 


6.30  p.m. 

Just  home  from  Vitrimont  in  a  blinding  blaze  of 
sun,  in  a  motor  driven  by  E.  M.,  and  bearing  in 
large  letters  the  words  "Commission  Calif ornienne  pour 
la  Reconstruction  des  Villages  Devastes,"  a  sort  of 
"open  sesame,"  and  everywhere  bayonets  were  lowered 
to  let  us  pass.  Nerves  a-quiver  with  another  day's  im- 
pressions. Tried  lying  down,  but  it  didn't  go,  so  I  am 
in  an  arm-chair  looking  out  of  my  Lorraine  window  in 
full  eighteenth  century  as  regards  setting,  but  with  a 
very  definite  tide  of  twentieth-century  warfare  sweeping 
through  it  all.  Meant  to  go  to  church,  where  there 
are  special  prayers  to  be  offered  up,  at  Benediction,  for 
the  needs  of  Lorraine,  but,  though  the  spirit  was  willing, 
the  rest  of  me  was  like  lead  after  the  hot,  full  day  and 
two  hours  in  one  spot  too  tempting. 

This  morning,  before  I  was  dressed,  E.  M.  and 
Mrs.  C.  P.,  also  staying  in  the  hotel,  appeared,  so  I 
hastily  harnessed  up  for  the  day  and  sallied  forth  with 
them.  We  went  first  to  the  charming  old  house  of 
Mile.  Guerin,  and,  going  in  through  a  wide  hallway, 
stepped  out  into  a  large  garden,  where,  under  some 
trees,  several  ladies  were  sitting,  one  of  them  Madame 
Saint-R.  T.  We  embraced  cordially,  in  the  very  evi- 
dent fulfilment  of  destiny.  Madame  Saint-R.  T.  was 
reading  Pierre  Boye's  Cour  de  Luneville,  which  I  matched 
with  Gaston  Maugras's,  and  then  I  looked  about  me. 

The  house,  gray  and  long  and  low,  was,  until  a  hun- 
dred years  ago,  a  Capuchin  monastery,  when  it  came 
into  the  hands  of  Mile.  Guerin's  family.  There  are  old 
linden-trees  in  the  garden,  and  some  tall  cedars  and 

19 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

roses  not  doing  very  well-,  and  masses  of  canterbury- 
bells  and  geraniums.  At  one  end  of  the  garden,  against 
the  wall,  is  an  ancient  statue  of  the  Virgin,  dark,  moss- 
grown,  against  still  darker  walls;  we  placed  the  flowers 
we  had  gathered  on  her  breast  and  in  the  hands  of  the 
Child.  Avions  were  humming  above  in  the  perfect  sky, 
and  against  the  faultless  blue  was  a  very  white  crescent 
moon  just  discernible. 

After  accepting  an  invitation  for  dinner  that  night, 
we  walked  out  through  the  town  toward  the  Chateau, 
once  the  haunt  of  witty  rulers,  philosophers,  and  of  the 
fair  and  evidently  too-amiable  ladies  beloved  by  them. 
However,  when  we  got  into  the  great  square  of  the 
palace  I  forgot  about  them,  for,  looking  up  at  the  statue 
of  Lasalle,  born  in  Metz,  1775,  and  fallen  at  the  battle 
of  Wagram,  1807,  were  two  Senegalese  whom  we  looked 
at  as  the  Luneville  populace  might  once  have  looked  at 
the  camels  the  young  Duke  Leopold  brought  back  with 
him  from  his  wars  with  the  Turks.  The  juxtaposi- 
tion was  as  strange.  One  of  the  Senegalese  had  on  a 
blue  cap,  the  other  a  red.  We  gave  each  one  a  franc 
for  cigarettes,  received  large-mouthed,  white-toothed 
smiles,  and  proceeded  to  look  at  the  remains  of  a  German 
avion  which  had  fallen  beside  the  statue  the  day  before, 
the  most  complete  wreck  possible.  The  aviator  had 
been  killed  and  his  broken  wings  were  being  removed  to 
the  Museum.  It  made  me  quite  still — there  was  some- 
thing so  complete  about  it  all,  the  great  Chateau  in  the 
background,  the  statue  of  Lasalle,  the  two  Senegalese, 
the  shattered  Taube! 

We  walked  on  rather  quietly  over  the  bridge  of  the 
Vesouze  to  the  Place  des  Cannes — the  Place  Briilee,  as 
it  is  now  called.  The  big  Carmelite  convent  which 
formed  the  square  had  been  used  as  a  barracks  for  a 
generation  or  so,  and  one  side  had  been  burned  with 


LUNfiVILLE 

incendiary  bombs  when  the  Germans  left,  while  the 
other  side  was  untouched.  In  the  middle  was  the  statue 
of  L'Abbe  Gregoire  (who  made  the  mistake  of  being 
ahead  of  his  time),  and  on  the  pedestal  are  the  words, 
"J'ai  vecu  sans  Idchete,  je  veux  mourir  sans  remords." 
We  stopped  only  a  moment  at  the  church — eighteenth 
century,  of  course;  fine  old  choir,  delicate  baroque  de- 
signs on  the  great  wooden  doors,  and  dominating  towers 
in  a  lovely  reddish  stone,  with  charming  motifs  of  urn 
and  scroll,  and  flying  angels  against  the  sky,  or  rather 
in  it. 

We  began  to  have  that  "gone"  feeling  about  this 
time,  and  turned  back  through  the  town  to  E.  M.'s 
house,  where  we  were  to  lunch.  It  was  cool  and  charm- 
ing as  we  stepped  in  out  of  the  sun-flooded  garden, 
stripped  of  the  mystery  of  the  night  before,  but  quite 
lovely.  In  old  Luneville  china  vases  were  masses  of 
pink  and  purple  canterbury-bells.  It  had  been  hastily 
but  charmingly  got  ready  for  occupancy  with  old  fur- 
niture that  nice  people  in  the  provinces  can  put  at  the 
disposition  of  their  friends,  and  I  saw  again  Miss  P., 
the  Isolde  of  the  dim,  scented  garden  of  the  night 
before.  After  lunch  we  sat  in  an  arbor  jutting  into  a 
corner  of  the  ancient  park,  drinking  our  coffee,  and 
eating  some  Mirror  candies  just  out  from  New  York — 
all  to  the  continued  hum  of  avions  and  the  rather  soft 
crack  of  guns.  Then  the  motor  was  announced,  or, 
to  be  faithful  to  reality,  somebody  said,  "We'd  better 
be  off."  We  put  on  our  veils,  got  into  the  motor,  which 
E.  M.  cranked  herself,  and  started  off  to  Vitrimont  with- 
out any  male  assistance  of  any  kind. 


CHAPTER   IV 

VITRIMONT 

A  MERCILESS  blaze  of  sun  as  we  passed  out  through 
the  town,  badly  battered  at  the  end,  through  the 
Place  Brulee,  leading  to  the  road  to  Vitrimont,  some 
three  kilometers  distant,  running  through  green  fields 
with  their  little  groups  of  black  crosses.  All  is  softly 
green  and  gently  rolling.  Vitrimont,  and  around  about 
it,  was  the  scene  of  some  of  the  fiercest  fighting  of  that 
first  August  of  the  war,  and  Vitrimont  itself  was  taken 
and  lost  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet  seven  times  in  one 
day  as  gray  German  floods  kept  rolling  in  over  the  green 
eastern  hills.  The  village  is  charmingly  placed  on  a  lit- 
tle eminence;  sloping  down  from  it  are  very  fertile 
meadows,  then  other  thickly  wooded  hills  slope  up 
against  the  sky. 

We  passed  through  encumbered  streets  of  devastated, 
roofless  houses,  going  first  to  Miss  P.'s  little  dwelling, 
that  she  has  lived  in  during  all  these  months  of  the 
superintending  of  the  reconstruction  work.  It  consists 
mostly  of  one  perfectly  charming  room  done  up  in  yel- 
low chintz  with  a  square  pattern  of  pink  roses,  and 
some  good  bits  of  old  furniture,  books,  and  flowers. 
She  took  down  from  the  wall  a  violin  made  by  a  con- 
valescing soldier  out  of  a  cigar-box  and  drew  from  it  a 
few  soft  and  lovely  tones.  The  rest  of  the  house,  where 
she   has   installed   herself   with   a   woman   servant,   is 

22 


VITRIMONT 

typical  of  the  Lorraine  peasant  houses:  a  very  wide 
door  to  let  the  harvest-wagons  in,  a  narrow  one  for  hu- 
man beings,  a  narrow  hall  leading  into  a  kitchen,  then 
the  bigger  living-room  giving  into  it,  now  so  charming 
in  its  yellow  chintz.  From  the  kitchen  some  steep  stairs 
lead  up  into  an  attic  which  Miss  P.  has  converted  into 
a  medical  dispensary. 

Outside,  across  the  street,  is  a  little  pergola  effect 
made  of  boarding,  where  one  can  sit  and  look  out  across 
the  softly  rolling,  wooded  hills.  In  it  are  a  table  and  a 
few  chairs  and  some  pots  of  flowers.  We  deposited  our 
tea-things  there,  and  were  starting  out  to  make  the 
tour  of  the  village,  when  the  mayor,  in  shirt  sleeves, 
loose  suspenders,  and  slipping  trousers  (his  wife  was 
killed  in  the  191 5  bombardment  of  Luneville  and  his 
son  fell  in  the  19 14  righting  in  Vitrimont),  came  to  wel- 
come us  and  do  the  inevitable  stamping  of  our  safe- 
conducts. 

We  then  proceeded  to  the  old  church,  one  of  the  first 
things  to  be  restored,  so  that  its  delicious  fifteenth- 
century  vaultings  and  window-tracings  would  be  beyond 
further  damage  from  exposure  to  the  weather.  One  of 
the  things  not  hurt  was  the  dado  running  around  the 
interior  in  the  form  of  painted  cloth  folds  by  a  mis- 
guided nineteenth-century  cure.  War,  with  its  usual 
discriminating  touch,  had  left  that.  In  the  vestibule 
are  some  small,  perfect  Louis  XV  holy- water  fonts  in 
the  form  of  shells  upheld  on  angels'  heads.  A  cele- 
brated baptismal  font  was  removed  to  Paris. 

We  then  went  to  the  maison  forte,  as  the  peasants 
call  what  had  been  a  sort  of  chateau,  the  dwelling  of  the 
"first  family"  of  the  place.  Its  medieval  tower  was 
battered  beyond  repair,  and  the  house  itself  pretty  well 
damaged,  while  some  of  the  rooms  still  had  charming 
bits  of  paneling,  and  the  locks  and  latches  of  the  doors 

23 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

were  perfect  examples  of  eighteenth-century  wrought- 
iron  work.  In  one  of  the  large  rooms,  whose  ceiling  was 
broken  in  by  a  shell,  was  a  lovely  old  fireback  under  a 
marble  mantel  with  the  arms  of  the  Counts  of  Vitri- 
mont.  By  a  north  window  was  sitting  a  woman 
working  at  an  embroidery  screen  with  a  brilliant 
green  and  silver  design;  an  old  man  with  palsied  head 
was  near. 

The  school  also  has  been  rebuilt.  A  rosy-faced  young 
schoolmistress  received  us,  and  two  little  boys  kept 
to  do  their  pen-sums  told  us  the  name  of  the  President 
of  the  United  States,  and  showed  us  Washington  and 
San  Francisco  on  the  map  hanging  in  the  room.  This 
having  been  satisfactorily  gone  through  with,  the 
punished  little  boys,  with  the  usual  luck  of  the  wicked, 
were  given  chocolates  by  E.  M.  and  dismissed;  then  we 
walked  out  into  the  little  cemetery,  approached  by  a 
narrow  pathway  of  arching  sycamores.  It  looks  out 
toward  the  ancient  forest  of  Vitrimont;  in  between  are 
more  green,  undulating  fields  ripening  with  the  191 7 
harvest.  The  walls  of  the  cemetery  are  battered  and 
broken  and  monuments  and  gravestones  are  overturned. 
There  was  furious  hand-to-hand  fighting  there,  and  in 
those  first  August  days  the  long  dead  again  mingled 
with  the  living.  I  passed  down  by  broken,  sun-baked 
walls,  reading  the  names  on  the  crosses  as  I  went,  and 
these  are  some  of  them : 

Lieut.  Jeannot,  26hne  Infanterie,  aspirant — Un  soldat 
inconnu — 

Haye,  Louis,  Scrgent — 28  soldats — 

A  notre  fils,  Charles  Diebolt,  mort  pour  la  Patric  1895- 
1914,  26hne  Infanterie — 

Charles  Carton,  Musicien;  Souvenir  d'un  camarade, 
mort  au  Champ  d'Honneur  31  aoilt  1914 — 

24 


VITRIMONT 

A  rude  wooden  cross  bears  the  words: 

"Ci-git  Edouard  Durand,  fusille  le  23  aotit  191 4  par 
dcs  letches." 

As  one  goes  out  is  the  tomb  of  a  young  girl;  Heldne 
Midon,  18  ans,  victime  du  ier  septembre  1915 — une 
priere — la  plus  jolie  fille  du  village."  A  white  and  vir- 
ginal rose  has  been  planted  where  she  lies.  In  this 
cemetery  lie,  too,  the  wife  and  son  of  the  mayor. 

The  first  upspringing  of  early  flowers  is  everywhere 
— asters,  goldenrod,  wild  roses — and  the  hot  sun  ex- 
tracted from  each  its  soft,  peculiar  perfume.  I  picked 
a  seemingly  perfect  rose  from  the  grave  of  un  soldat 
inconnu.  Its  petals  immediately  fell  to  the  ground. 
Everything  grows  with  an  almost  ironical  luxuriousness 
on  the  shallow,  hastily  dug  graves.  All  over  Lorraine 
is  this  same  flowering ;  it  has  been  and  will  be,  but  there 
was  no  time  to  ponder  on  the  fate  of  frontier  lands,  for 
we  were  next  to  call  on  the  officer  commanding  the 
detachment  quartered  at  Vitrimont,  who  was  housed 
in  a  reconstructed  building  and  who  had  been  waked 
from  slumber  to  receive  us.  When  I  gave  him  my 
boxes  of  cigarettes  for  his  men  he  said  that  he  had 
received  some  before  for  the  soldiers  who  had  the  Croix 
de  Guerre.  I  promptly  told  him  mine  were  for  the 
soldiers  who  had  not  got  it.  Mrs.  C.  P.  brought  bundles 
of  illustrated  papers  and  postal  cards. 

Soldiers  are  everywhere  helping  to  get  in  the  hay; 
sweet  odors  of  freshly  cut  grass  float  about  on  the 
warm  air  to  the  sound  of  distant  cannonading.  How- 
ever, in  spite  of  everything,  it  is  already  V  aprds-guerre 
here,  and  the  delivered  population  is  breathing  again, 
but  it  all  gives  the  sensation  of  something  prostrate  that 
needs  the  help  of  strong,  fresh  hands  before  it  can  arise. 
Mrs.  Crocker's  work  is  on  such  a  generous,  imagina- 
tive, sliding  scale,  and  Miss  P.,  untiring  and  executive,  is 

25 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

of  immense  tact  in  dealing  with  the  Lorraine  peasant, 
a  peculiar  type  demanding  peculiar  handling.  There 
are  numberless  psychological  situations  needing  adjust- 
ment in  the  human  as  well  as  material  affairs  of  dev- 
astated villages.  Miss  P.  meets  all  difficulties  with 
understanding  plus  determination.  Some  are  content, 
some  not,  with  what  is  done  for  them.  One  woman 
whose  house  was  completed,  and  who  was  evidently 
dazzled  by  the  result,  said,  "It  isn't  a  house  to  live  in, 
but  to  rent." 

Another,  however,  when  we  went  into  the  grange 
behind  her  house,  pointing  to  the  posts  sustaining  the 
hay-lofts,  said:  "Will  they  hold?  The  old  ones  were 
twice  the  size." 

Sanitary  improvements  have  been  worked  out  as  far 
as  possible,  but  when  you  try  to  tamper  with  a  peasant's 
pile  of  furnier,  it's  like  tampering  with  his  purse — and 
that's  impossible.  Quite  a  good  deal  of  live  stock  has 
been  put  into  Vitrimont. 

A  soldier  stationed  with  the  Vitrimont  detachment 
cranked  the  motor  for  us.  His  home  was  near  by,  and 
he  told  us  with  shining  eyes  that  he  had  just  bought 
for  ninety  francs  two  pigs.  Somebody  observed  it  was 
the  premier  pig  qui  cottte.  However  that  may  be,  the 
purchase  marked  the  remaking  of  his  home. 

One  is  appalled  at  the  time  and  energy  and  money 
necessary  for  the  rebuilding  of  this  single  village — a 
million  francs  is  the  cost  estimated — and  materials  and 
workmen  are  increasingly  difficult  to  get.  One  thinks 
of  the  hundreds  that  aren't  being  rebuilt.  Vitrimont 
has  certainly  been  smiled  on  by  heaven  and  Mrs.  C. 

As  we  drove  home,  fleecy,  delicately  tinted  clouds 
were  pinned  together  with  mother-of-pearl  cross-shaped 
brooches.  It  is  in  the  air  alone  that  there  is  any  "war 
beauty." 

26 


VITRIMONT 

Soldiers  are  passing  under  my  window,  some  in  the 
blue  trench-helmets,  with  their  equipment ;  some  in  their 
fatigue  caps,  swinging  their  arms,  free  of  their  eternal 
burdens;  and  there  are  officers  afoot  or  on  horseback, 
and  colonials — marines,  we  call  them — in  many  kinds  of 
uniforms. 

The  poster  on  the  old  garden  wall  opposite  says: 
Alice  Raveau  viendra  jouer  "Werther,"  dimanche,  le  IJ 
juin,  1917,  en  matinee. 

Charlotte  might  have  lived  in  the  house  behind  the 
wall  on  which  it  is  pasted,  a  gray,  smooth-facaded  house 
with  a  good  eighteenth-century  door,  and  a  chestnut 
and  a  linden  in  full  bloom.  At  the  cafe  on  the  corner 
soldiers  are  sitting,  laughing  and  talking,  humming,  drink- 
ing their  bocks,  reading  their  papers,  or  throwing  words  to 
women  who  pass  by,  and  I  thought  of  the  men  who  pass 
through  these  villages,  leaving  to  women  an  inexorable 
burden  and  an  untransmittable  joy.  Many  swallows  are 
flying  about,  and  above  it  all,  in  the  colorful  afternoon 
air,  avions  are  humming.  On  the  wings  of  the  French 
airplanes  are  stamped  a  great  circle  of  color  like  an  eye 
with  red  pupil,  white  retina,  and  a  blue  outer  rim.  After 
the  hot  day,  something  lovely  and  cool  begins  to  come 
in  at  the  window,  and  I  know  soldiers  all  over  Lorraine 
are  resting  after  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day,  though 
in  the  distance  the  dull,  muffled  sound  of  cannon  con- 
tinues. Now  I  must  "dress" — that  is,  put  on  my  other 
dress — for  the  eight-o'clock  dinner  at  Mile.  Guerin's. 


CHAPTER   V 

MONSIEUR   KELLER 

Lun£ville,  Saturday,  16th  June,  8  a.m. 

AS  I  put  out  my  light  and  opened  wide  my  window 
L  last  night  a  rush  of  warm,  linden-scented  air  came 
in,  also  the  thick,  soft,  meridional  voice  of  some  soldier 
singing  "En  passant  par  la  Lorraine."  I,  too,  was  pass- 
ing through  Lorraine,  and  I  got  the  sleep  I  didn't  get 
the  night  before. 

This  morning  more  whirring  of  aeroplanes,  but  peace- 
ful. The  Taube  got  off  yesterday;  all  the  events  of 
Friday  were  accompanied  by  that  constant  low-flying 
of  aeroplanes,  making  one  feel  one  was  being  looked  after. 
Dinner  at  Monsieur  Guerin's.  Monsieur  Keller,  the 
celebrated  mayor  of  Luneville,  whose  tact,  courage,  and 
good  sense  saved  Luneville  many  tragedies  at  the  time 
of  the  German  entry,  took  me  out.  He  has  a  lively,  per- 
ceptive eye,  and,  all  in  all,  life  seems  not  to  have  been 
unkind  to  him,  though  he  has  been  invaded,  and  his 
parents  before  him.  He  received  the  Germans  and  said 
adieu  to  them  all  in  that  month  of  August.  His  fine 
old  dwelling,  where  the  treaty  of  peace  was  signed  in 
1801  between  France  and  Austria,  is  next  to  E.  M.'s, 
and  housed  at  one  time  one  hundred  German  soldiers, 
and  the  general  and  his  staff  were  quartered  in  it.  He 
was,  of  course,  the  bright  particular  hostage  during  the 
occupation,  and  was  followed  about  by  two  officers  and 
four  soldiers  wherever  he  went. 

28 


MONSIEUR    KELLER 

"I  kept  them  moving,"  he  added,  with  a  snap  of  his 
perceptive  eye. 

At  Luneville  one  hundred  and  thirty  houses  were  de- 
stroyed and  there  was  much  loss  of  life  among  civilians. 
The  mayor  has,  or  rather  had,  a  property  near  Vitri- 
mont,  called  Leomont,  on  a  hill  where  there  was  for- 
merly a  Roman  temple  to  the  moon,  and  from  this 
Luneville  is  supposed  to  take  its  name.  The  great  farm 
and  its  ancient  buildings  were  destroyed  during  the 
bombardments  of  Luneville  and  Vitrimont. 

"It's  only  a  war  monument  now,"  he  added,  phil- 
osophically. 

It's  the  atmosphere  of  Luneville  that's  so  charming 
to  me — this  drop  into  full  eighteenth  century,  with  the 
boom  of  twentieth-century  cannon  in  the  distance.  In 
spite  of  the  sound  of  guns,  there  is  some  peace  they 
can't  destroy.  I  knew  nothing  about  the  French  prov- 
inces till  I  got  to  Luneville,  and  I  suppose  it's  their 
immemorial  and  quite  special  atmosphere  that  I  have 
received.  Here  the  war  seems  to  be  a  thing  of  the  past ; 
they  think  of  their  secteur  only,  and  of  themselves  as 
Uteres,  and  talk  of  the  war  in  the  past  tense,  and  it 
might  be  1814  just  as  well  as  1914. 

A  heavenly  evening.  We  walked  in  the  dim  old  gar- 
den smelling  of  linden.  No  lights  anywhere,  of  course, 
and,  though  the  stars  were  beautiful,  they  didn't  seem 
to  light  up  anything  terrestrial ;  the  only  things  blacker 
than  the  night  were  the  giant  cedars.  At  dinner  was  a 
youngish,  much-decorated  general,  coming  back  for  a 
night  from  the  front ;  though  born  in  Luneville  it  was  the 
first  time  he  had  been  here  since  the  war — always  fight- 
ing in  other  parts  of  France.  Besides  the  general  there 
were  Madame  Saint-R.  T.,  E.  M.,  and  Miss  P.,  who 
appeared  in  some  sort  of  dull-red  tunic  that  she  ought 
always  to  wear ;  the  mayor  and  his  wife  (she  is  Gasconne, 

29 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

and  very  animated,  though  she  said  twenty  years  of 
Luneville  had  somewhat  calmed  her) ;  two  or  three 
women  with  husbands  at  the  front  bringing  daughters; 
several  young  officers;  and  M.  Guerin  and  his  daughter 
— the  usual  war-time  composition  of  dinner-parties  in 
the  provinces,  I  imagine.  Excellent  and  very  lavish 
repast,  maigre,  of  course,  but  everything  else  except 
meat  in  profusion.  I  didn't  get  to  bed  till  after  eleven. 
M.  Guerin  walked  back  to  the  hotel  with  us,  and,  while 
he  and  Mrs.  C.  P.  talked,  again  I  was  accosted  by  ghosts 
of  dead  rulers  and  lovely  ladies  and  philosophers  as  we 
crossed  the  vast,  dim  Place  Leopold.  They,  too,  had 
crossed  it  and  been  amorous  and  witty,  pleased  or  having 
vapeurs,  enveloped  by  linden  scent,  and  the  changeless 
stars  had  controlled  their  destinies. 

Later. 

This  morning  we  visited  the  military  hospital  in  one 
of  the  most  charming  edifices  I  have  ever  seen,  an 
eighteenth-century  convent-building.  The  first  entry 
on  the  tableau  in  the  hallway  giving  the  names  of  the 
benefactors  was  1761;  the  last,  1913.  It  is  a  two- 
storied,  cloistered,  rambling  edifice,  with  several  wide 
courtyards  planted  with  trees  and  flowers,  a  fountain  in 
the  middle  of  one;  in  another  a  statue  of  the  Virgin; 
beyond  it  a  sun-baked  vegetable  garden;  and  still 
farther,  behind  a  hedge,  the  inevitable  little  cemetery. 

We  went  through  the  wards  of  the  hospital,  high- 
ceilinged,  spotless,  airy,  with  the  medecin-chef,  talking 
with  the  wounded  and  distributing  cigarettes. 

One  of  the  doctors,  also  mayor  of  Gerbeviller,  said  to 
us,  when  we  told  him  we  were  going  there  in  the  after- 
noon, "But  don't  you  want  to  see  the  young  German 
aviator?" 

Thinking  it  quite  "in  the  note,"  we  went  up-stairs 

30 


AUTHOR   AT   VITRIMONT 


CEMETERY,    VITRIMONT 


THE   BRIDGE  AT  LUNEVILLE 


MONSIEUR    KELLER 

again.  He  unlocked  the  door  of  a  large  corner  room. 
At  a  table  by  a  window  looking  out  on  another  little 
tree-planted  court  was  the  young  eaglet  with  fractured 
"wing" — arm  and  shoulder — in  plaster.  He  got  up 
with  the  military  salute  as  we  came  in.  I  begged  per- 
mission to  address  him  in  German,  and  when  I  asked 
him  where  he  was  zu  Hause,  he  answered,  "Posen," 
and  that  it  was  far.  He  said  he  was  very  comfortable, 
but,  with  a  longing  glance  at  the  patch  of  sky,  added 
that  he  was  dreadfully  bored.  I  suppose  he  was,  after 
being  a  bird  in  the  blue  ether  and  breaking  into  secular 
silences.  He  had  been  there  a  month,  but  was  still  very 
thin  under  the  cheek-bones  and  dark  about  the  eyes, 
and  very  young.  He  turned  to  the  doctor  with  an  en- 
tirely different  expression — a  sort  of  shutting  down  of 
iron  shutters  over  the  youthful  look — on  being  asked 
in  German  if  he  had  all  he  needed. 

"Why  have  I  had  no  answer  to  the  post-cards  I  have 
written  my  mother?"  he  asked,  adding,  "we  also  have 
mothers." 

The  medecin-chef  said :  ' '  You  know  you  can  only  write 
once  a  month;  but  write  another,  all  the  same,  and  I 
will  see  it  is  sent  off." 

He  had  a  worn  French  grammar  on  the  table  and  had 
been  diligently  studying  verbs  when  we  entered.  The 
doctor  was  so  nice  with  him. 

There  is  no  bitterness  at  the  front ;  the  more  one  sees 
of  it  the  more  one  realizes  that  bitterness  is  the  special 
prerogative  of  non-combatants  far  from  the  field.  I 
heard  an  American  woman  say  to  an  officer  just  back 
from  the  front,  so  newly  back  that  "the  look"  was 
still  in  his  eyes; 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  at  Cologne,  destroying  the  cathe- 
dral.    It  would  serve  the  Boches  right." 

He  looked  at  her  and  made  answer:    "Ce  n'est  pas 

3i 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

comme  ga,  madame.  Enough  has  been  destroyed  in  the 
world.     Think  rather  of  reconstruction." 

Ah!   les  civils! 

Coming  out,  we  met  Mile,  des  Garets  and  went  with 
her  to  her  evacuation  hospital  near  the  station,  which 
was  a  triumph  of  turning  heterogeneous  spaces  into  a 
single  purpose.  Two  old  railway  sheds  had  been  con- 
verted into  receiving-rooms,  douche-rooms,  refectories, 
and  several  eighteenth-century  cellars  had  been  so  ar- 
ranged that  in  case  of  bombardment  they  could  stow 
away  fifteen  hundred  wounded.  This  seems  a  simple 
enough  statement,  but  just  think  what  stowing  away, 
suddenly,  fifteen  hundred  wounded  means!  Mile,  des 
Garets,  a  daughter  of  General  des  Garets,  has  been  mar- 
velous in  her  devotion  and  practicality  since  the  be- 
ginning of  the  war. 

I  hear  the  motor-horn.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VI 

GERBEVILLER    AND    LA    SCEUR   JULIE 

WE  started  out  for  Gerbeviller  in  a  blinding  sun, 
over  a  road  leading  through  pleasant  green 
meadows.  That  is  one  of  the  strange  things  of  Lor- 
raine— everywhere  destroyed  villages  and  everywhere 
well-planted  fields,  almost  as  if  planted  by  the  ghostly 
throngs  of  heroes  who  lie  within.  For  in  nearly  every 
field  there  are  the  little  clusters  of  black  crosses,  hung 
with  flowers  or  the  tricolor  badge,  or  quite  bare — with 
the  number  of  men  who  lie  within,  or  a  date,  scarcely 
ever  a  name. 

We  went  into  the  village,  very  ancient,  that  owes 
its  name,  Ville  des  Gerbes,  to  a  miracle  performed  there 
by  St.-Mansuy,  past  the  completely  destroyed  chateau 
of  the  Lambertye  family,  and,  going  up  a  winding  street, 
reached  the  house  of  Sister  Julie,  the  heroine  of  August, 
1 9 14.  On  every  side  were  gutted  houses  and  piles  of 
mortar  and  stones;  one  enterprising  individual  of  the 
fair  sex  had  installed  against  a  resisting  wall  Le  Cafe 
des  Ruines,  and  some  soldiers  and  civilians  were  sitting 
on  bits  of  stone'  and  masonry,  drinking  their  bocks  and 
reading  newspapers.  The  convent-building  is  in  the 
principal  street,  and  it  was  unharmed  save  for  a  little 
peppering  of  rifle-fire  and  a  bit  of  cornice  knocked  off — 
par  la  grdce  de  Dieu,  as  Sister  Julie  afterward  told  us. 
Up  three  steps,  and  one  finds  oneself  in  a  narrow,  an- 

33 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

cient  stone  hallway.  Turning  to  the  right,  one  enters 
a  cool,  peaceful  room  of  the  convent-parlor  type — a 
large  crucifix,  lithographs  of  the  last  three  popes,  horse- 
hair furniture,  white  crocheted  doilies,  everything  spot- 
less. In  a  moment  Sister  Julie  came  in.  Her  flashing 
eyes,  her  determined  jaw,  show  her  always  to  have  been  a 
woman  of  parts,  and  yet  her  whole  life  is  really  crowded 
into  those  few  eventful  days  of  the  latter  part  of  August, 
when  "they"  entered  the  town.  For  the  rest,  the  quiet, 
useful  routine  of  the  nursing  and  teaching  order  of  St. 
Charles  de  Nancy,  which  had  been  chasse  at  the  time  of 
the  French  Revolution;  a  few  nuns  managed  to  remain 
hidden,  and  the  order  has  been  preserved.  She  is  evi- 
dently a  responsive  soul,  for  she  immediately  began  to 
enact  the  story  of  the  arrival  of  the  Germans,  with  a 
certain  art  in  the  presentment  of  the  tragedy  of  the 
little  town,  gained,  no  doubt,  by  many  recitals. 

The  Germans  came  into  the  town  on  the  27th  of 
August,  after  the  heroic  defense  of  the  bridge  over  the 
Mortagne  by  a  detachment  of  fifty-four  men  of  the 
2d  Chasseurs  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  who  held  up  dur- 
ing hours  the  brigade  of  the  Bavarian  General  Clauss. 
Finally,  at  five  o'clock  the  gray  hosts  got  through  and 
passed  in  with  a  great  sound  of  tramping  feet  and  ring- 
ing hoof,  and,  after  the  manner  of  invaders,  mettant  le 
feu  et  le  sang  dans  le  village.  Sister  Julie  thought  her 
hour  also  had  come.  In  the  room  where  we  were  sitting 
she  had  placed  her  thirteen  wounded  men,  brought  in 
at  intervals  during  the  day.  "Mes  petits,"  she  called 
them,  and  her  eyes  shone  softly  at  the  memory.  She 
sent  the  other  sisters  up  to  the  attic,  and  remained  alone 
to  face  the  enemy  and  to  beg  that  the  house  be  spared. 
She  went  out  on  the  little  step,  not  knowing  what  fate 
awaited  her,  and  found  four  immense  officers  on  horse- 
back, with  their  horses'  heads  facing  her. 

34 


gerb£viller 

"They  thought  they  were  Charlemagnes,  immense 
men,  with  light  hair  and  light-blue  eyes  and  arched 
noses  and  gallooned  uniforms.  I  was  like  a  dwarf  in 
comparison,  and  I  am  not  small."  To  tell  the  truth, 
she  is  indeed  a  "muscular  Christian." 

Then  began  the  interrogatory,  the  ranking  officer 
demanding  of  her: 

"Sie  sprechen  Deutsch?" 

She  said  to  us,  with  a  smile: 

"I  did  speak  it  in  my  youth,  but  it  wasn't  the  mo- 
ment to  recall  my  studies,  and  I  didn't  answer,  and  we 
remained  for  a  few  seconds  looking  at  each  other  comme 
des  chiens  de  faience.1  I  so  little  on  the  house-step, 
and  they  so  tall  on  their  big  horses,  and  with  poignards 
drawn  from  their  breast  pockets,  pas  le  beau  geste  de 
tirer  V&pee  du  cote,"  she  finished,  disdainfully. 

Finally,  the  silence  was  broken  by  the  ranking  officer, 
whose  next  words  were  in  French:  "Nous  ne  sommes  pas 
des  barbares;  you  have  soldiers  and  weapons  concealed 
in  your  house.     Lead  the  way." 

Then  the  four  officers  dismounted  and,  with  pistols 
in  one  hand  and  poignards  in  the  other,  followed  Sister 
Julie  into  the  little  room  where  the  thirteen  wounded 
men  were  lying.  Their  helmets  touched  the  ceiling  as 
they  looked  about  them.  Standing  by  the  first  bed 
nearest  the  door,  an  officer  pulled  down  the  covers. 

"You  have  arms  concealed." 

"We  have  nothing.  You  will  find  only  men  lying  in 
their  blood." 

By  this  time  Sister  Julie  was  not  only  talking,  but 
acting  the  scene,  indicating  where  the  beds  were,  where 
she  had  stood,  where  the  four  chefs  had  entered,  and 
how  the  eyes  of  the  wounded  men  followed  her.  The 
officers  made  the  rounds  of  the  beds,  pulling  down  each 

1  Like  porcelain  dogs. 
35 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

stained  cover,  Sister  Julie  following  to  re-cover  the  men, 
who  were  expecting,  as  was  she,  the  order  to  burn  the 
house. 

She  continued:  "They  were  Bavarians,  and  when  I 
said:  'You  see,  we  have  nothing.  Leave  me  my 
wounded,  in  the  name  of  Mary  most  Holy,'  the  com- 
manding officer  began  to  look  at  the  point  of  his  shoe 
as  men  do  when  they  are  embarrassed.  I  have  seen 
surgeons  do  just  that  when  they  are  in  doubt  about  an 
operation, ' '  she  added.  ' '  Then  he  suddenly  turned  with- 
out a  word  and  went  out,  followed  by  the  other  three, 
pistols  and  poignards  in  hand.  They  passed  up  the 
street  with  their  detachment,  'mcttant  le  feu  et  le  sang  au 
village;  et  moi,  restee  avec  mes  petits,  a  rcmcrcier  le  bon 
Dicu — et  de  leur  donner  a  boire.' " 

We  gave  our  little  offerings  into  her  generous  hands, 
and  sniffed  the  scent  of  freshly  baked  bread  that  perme- 
ated the  corridor.  E.  M.  photographed  her  standing  on 
her  historic  steps,  and  we  went  out  into  the  hot,  cobble- 
stoned  street,  to  the  completely  ruined  Lambertye 
chateau,  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  park  whose  gardens 
were  designed  by  Louis  de  Nesle.  Two  large  and  very 
beautiful  porphyry  basins  near  the  house  were  untouched 
— not  a  nick  or  a  scratch.  On  the  great  marble  fireplace 
of  what  had  been  the  big  central  hall,  now  uncovered 
to  the  day,  we  could  still  read  the  words: 

Charles  de  Montmorency 
Due  de  .  .  .  .  mbourg, 
Marshal  de  France. 

Afterward  E.  M.  took  some  more  photographs,  and 
we  sped  homeward  to  pack  our  belongings  and  dash 
into  Nancy  to  get  the  eight-o'clock  train  from  there  for 
Bar-le-Duc,  to  be  ready  for  the  high  adventure  of 
Verdun  early  the  next  morning. 

36 


CHAPTER  VII 

BAR-LE-DUC 
Bar-le-Duc,  Sunday,  June  17U1,  2  a.m. 

SCRIBBLING  in  an  indescribable  brown-uphol- 
stered room,  where  one  lies  on  the  outside  of  a 
dark  and  menacing  bed  covered  by  one's  own  coat,  a 
strong  odor  of  stable  coming  in  at  the  window  and  a 
horrid  black  cat  wandering  about.  It's  no  night  to 
sleep.  Two  o'clock  has  just  softly  sounded  from  some 
old  bell.  I  didn't  hear  one  o'clock,  I  am  thankful  to 
say.  I  was  in  a  sort  of  trance  of  fatigue  when  we  got 
here  at  eleven. 

Miss  P.  motored  us  into  Nancy,  straight  into  the 
setting  sun.  My  eyes  were  so  tired  that  I  didn't  try 
to  pierce  the  hot  glaze,  but  there's  a  memory  of  running 
through  green  fields,  with  black  crosses,  saline  installa- 
tions (Rosieres  aux  Salines) ,  manufacturing  towns  (Dom- 
basle-sur-Meurthe) ,  and  Gothic  towers  (St.  Nicholas  du 
Port),  and  a  dash  through  the  new  factory  suburbs  of 
Nancy  into  the  delicate  and  perfect  loveliness  of  the 
Place  Stanislas.  Neither  E.  M.  nor  I  had  a  permit  to 
go  to  Bar-le-Duc,  the  point  of  departure  for  Verdun, 
but  Mrs.  P.  had,  so  she  was  deputed  to  order  dinner  at 
the  Cafe  Stanislas,  while  we  went  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville 
to  try  to  find  the  Secretaire  General,  Mr.  Martin,  a  special 
friend  of  E.  M.'s,  and  do  what  I  call  "cutting  barbed 
wire."     It  seemed  at  one  time  as  if  the  high  adventure 

4  37 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

of  Verdun  might  have  to  be  abandoned,  as  the  Secretaire 
General,  who  alone  could  give  us  the  necessary  per- 
mission, had  been  called  to  Pont-a-Mousson  to  investi- 
gate the  results  of  a  raid  of  German  avions  there  and 
at  Pompey  that  morning.  However,  when  fate  has 
made  up  its  mind  that  things  shall  happen,  any  dead- 
lock is  cleared  up  by  the  puppets  themselves,  literally 
on  a  string  this  time,  for  as  we  were  standing  there  in 
the  room  with  the  impotent  substitute  of  the  Secretaire 
General,  the  telephone  rang,  and  who  was  it  but  the 
so  desired  gentleman  calling  up  about  something  on  the 
long-distance  wire.  E.  M.  literally  grabbed  the  re- 
ceiver, explained  the  situation,  and  he  gave  the  neces- 
sary authority  to  his  substitute,  and  we  in  turn  gave  the 
oft -repeated  story  of  our  lives  from  the  cradle  to  the 
present  moment,  and  finally  could  depart  with  papers 
in  order  for  dinner  at  the  Cafe  Stanislas.  Again  as  we 
walked  across  the  lovely  Place  my  soul  was  stirred  with 
memories  of  peace,  love,  and  the  arts  of  peace.  I 
seemed  to  understand  anew  those  words,  "The  arts  of 
peace,"  and  in  a  half-dream  I  looked  up  at  the  heavens. 
Again  pale,  charming  faded  tints  of  blues  and  grays  and 
pinks  were  the  background  for  the  urns  and  figures  of 
the  sky-line  of  the  pure  and  lovely  buildings  that  sur- 
round it,  and  a  crescent  moon  with  something  untouched 
and  virginal  flung  a  last  charm  about  it  all. 

We  found  Mrs.  C.  P.  waiting  at  the  same  table  at 
which  I  had  sat  two  nights  before  with  the  sons  of  Mars 
and  the  man  of  God.  We  were  just  beginning  our  din- 
ner when,  looking  out  of  the  window,  we  saw  something 
strange  and  for  a  moment  unclassifiable,  in  an  almost 
impossible  juxtaposition  of  ideas.  No  one's  mind  would 
be  sufficiently  mobile  to  grasp  what  it  was  without  blink- 
ing a  bit.  The  great,  portentous  black  cross  on  its  wings 
was  what  started  the  mind  working  properly.     It  was 

38 


BAR-LE-DUC 

the  Taube  brought  down  at  Pont-a-Mousson  that 
morning,  being  drawn  on  a  camion  through  the  delicious, 
delicate  tracery  of  Jean  Lamour's  wrought -iron  gate! 

1755-1917! 

We  dashed  out;  a  crowd  was  already  gathering.  A 
young  French  aviator  with  a  curious  look  in  his  eyes 
was  watching  it  being  set  up.  Having  espied  the  wings 
on  his  uniform,  we  asked  "what  and  where  and  how" 
and  are  "they"  dead  or  prisoners?  Some  one  said, 
"C'est  lui,"  indicating  the  young  man,  who  did  not 
answer  our  questions,  but  continued  to  stand  quite  still 
in  some  sort  of  dream  or  detente  of  nerves.  But  a  man  in 
the  crowd  said: 

"He  brought  it  down  at  Pont-a-Mousson,  and  they  are 
prisoners."  We  were  standing  by  the  statue  of  Stanislas 
le  Bienfaisant,  Stanislas  le  Bon,  his  reign  le  rdgne  des 
talents,  des  arts  et  des  vertus  (these  last  not  as  we  know 
them  in  191 7),  and  he  was  looking  on  strange  things! 
We  went  back  to  the  cafe,  consumed  in  haste  and  dis- 
traction the  very  nice  little  dinner,  topped  off  by  straw- 
berries and  cream  and  the  celebrated  macarons  des 
Sojtirs  Macarons,  and  again  I  found  myself  dashing  to 
the  station,  which  one  thinks  is  near  and  isn't,  accom- 
panied by  my  two  fair  friends,  all  going  at  the  same  allure 
militaire  that  I  had  taken  forty-eight  hours  before  with 
the  two  Breton  officers  and  the  Chaplain  of  the  5 2d. 

Wild  dash  at  the  station  for  our  hand-luggage,  and 
stampings  of  safe-conduct,  then  a  hunt  for  the  porter, 
who,  with  an  excess  of  zeal  (and  hope),  had  reserved  a 
coupe  for  us  and  put  up  the  fateful  words  dames  seules. 
Now  there  is  no  such  thing  as  dames  seules  at  the  front. 
Many  officers  were  standing  in  the  corridor,  one  on 
crutches,  so  we  tore  the  forbidding  words  from  the  win- 
dows, and  the  compartment  automatically,  though 
courteously,  filled. 

39 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

Among  them  two  immense,  dark-bearded  men '  from 
the  Midi,  with  accents  to  defeat  the  enemy,  and  a  pale 
officer  from  near  the  Swiss  frontier,  as  we  afterward 
discovered.  He  smiled  when  I  said  to  the  dark  one 
sitting  by  me,  after  the  greetings  and  thanks: 

' '  You  come  from  Marseilles  ?"  (He  came  from  a  little 
place  five  miles  from  there.) 

The  officer  on  crutches  stretched  his  leg  with  a  con- 
traction of  the  face  and  a  sigh  of  relief.  They  were  all 
en  route  for  home,  from  the  same  regiment,  the  seven 
precious  days  of  permission  counting  from  the  hour 
they  reach  their  homes  till  the  hour  they  leave  them, 
after  months  in  the  field.  They  had  fought  in  Belgium, 
on  the  dunes,  these  men  of  the  south,  those  first  eighteen 
months,  up  to  their  waists  in  water,  often  for  weeks  at 
a  time.  They  found  the  Lorraine  landscape  that  so 
soothed  my  soul  only  fairly  pretty,  and  spoke  soft 
praises  of  le  Midi. 

They  all  had  the  strange,  bold,  hard,  shining  look  about 
the  eyes,  with  a  deeper  suggestion  of  sadness,  that  men 
just  returning  from  action  have.  It  is  the  warrior  look — 
one  kills  or  one  is  killed,  one  conquers  or  is  conquered; 
there  is  no  via  media. 

The  pale  officer  from  Savoy  said :  ' '  There  should  never 
be  any  war;  e'est  trop  terrible;  but,  once  given  the  fact 
that  war  exists,  all  means  to  victory  are  justifiable." 
And  the  bright,  hard  look  deepening  on  his  face  made 
me  suddenly  think  of  Charles  Martel  and  Charlemagne, 
and  I  knew  it  was  the  way  French  warriors  have  looked 
through  the  ages,  but,  oh!   France.   "Oh  donx  pays!" 

At  Bar-le-Duc,  dating  from  the  Merovingians,  at 
least,  we  descended  (our  bags  passed  out  of  the  windows 
by  the  officers),  and  went  through  a  dark,  silent,  linden- 
scented  town,  obliged  to  drag  our  own  belongings  through 
an  interminable  street,  over  a  bridge  across  tree-bordered 

40 


BAR-LE-DUC 

black  water,  till  we  got  to  this  abode,  known  to  men 
by  the  name  of  Hotel  de  Metz  et  du  Commerce.  What 
the  devils  call  it  I  don't  know;  I  have  just  chased  the 
black  cat  out,  and  if  I  don't  get  some  sleep  I  shall  not 
get  to  Verdun.  There's  no  linden  scent  coming  in  at 
my  window  here. 

Bar-le-Duc,  eight  o'clock  a.m. 

Waiting  in  the  sandy-floored  dining-room  of  the  hotel. 
All  three  of  us  very  cross.  At  dawn  not  only  the  light, 
but  the  sounds  of  chopping  of  wood,  emptying  of  pails, 
and  invectives  of  various  sorts  came  in  at  the  dreadful 
windows.  At  seven  the  maid  mounted  to  know  if  we 
wanted  the  water  in  the  tea  or  the  tea  in  the  water. 
That  tea  "threw"  them.  Not  a  sign  of  the  famous 
Bar-le-Duc  jellies  that  one  has  eaten  all  one's  life,  even 
outre-mer.  We  compared  notes  of  furry,  rumpled  sheets, 
dented  pillows,  dark  coverlets,  dreadful  scents,  and 
unmistakable  sounds.  We  are  now  somewhat  restored 
by  hot  and  very  good  cafe  an  lait,  and  Mrs.  C.  P.  is  look- 
ing out  of  the  door  for  signs  of  Mr.  de  Singay,  who 
has  just  stepped  out  of  his  motor. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

VERDUN 

J/'ERDUN!    The  sound  is  like  a  clarion  call.    Verdun! 

V  It  is  short,  but  gravely  harmonious.  It  is  satisfying 
to  the  ear,  it  is  quickening  to  the  soul.  Verdun!  It  is  for 
France  the  word  of  words;  in  it  lies  the  whole  beauty  of 
her  language  and  of  her  martial  glory  as  well. 

Who  shall  say  it  is  but  a  fortuitous  collection  of  letters, 
this  word  Verdun,  beautiful  as  a  chalice,  that  holds  the  dear- 
est blood  of  France?  It  would  not  have  been  the  same 
mystically,  perhaps  not  actually,  had  it  been  Toid  or  Epinal 
or  even  that  other  melodic  sound,  Belfort.  Verdun!  It  is 
the  call  through  red  days  and  nights,  and  everywhere  the 
sons  of  France  rallying  to  it  with  great  hurryings  lest  may- 
hap one  be  there  before  the  other,  to  dye  with  deeper  color 
the  crimson  of  high  deeds.  Verdun,  ear  and  tongue  re- 
linquish you  regretfully. 

Verdun,  glory  and  sorrow  of  France,  I  salute  you, 
Verdun!     Verdun! 


Night,  silence,  and  memory  turning  over  the  events 
of  the  day. 

I  stopped  writing  this  morning  as  a  gentleman  of 
supreme  personal  distinction  entered  the  little  sandy- 
floored  cafe,  a  gentleman  who  should  always  be  arriv- 
ing in  a  dark-red,   sixty -horse-power  Panhard,   or  re- 

42 


VERDUN 

ceiving  on  a  terrace  with  a  castle  behind  him,  or  sitting 
in  a  library  of  first  editions  only,  in  soft  but  gorgeous 
bindings.  It  was  M.  de  S.,  and  we  shortly  all  got  into 
the  big  auto,  we  three  women  on  the  broad  back  seat, 
M.  de  S.  in  front  with  the  military  chauffeur.  Even 
the  bend  of  his  long  back  was  V elegance  supreme.  He 
said  the  motor  had  seen  three  years  of  war-service,  but 
certainly  there  was  something  unfatigued  about  it  as 
it  started  out  through  the  ancient  streets  of  Bar-le-Duc, 
on  the  white  road  to  the  fateful  fortress.  The  arrow  on 
the  first  Verdun  sign-post  gave  a  feeling  of  having  shot 
itself  into  one's  heart,  as  well  as  pointing  the  way. 

Almost  immediately  we  met  a  long  convoy  bringing 
men  back  from  the  front,  ourselves  and  everything  else 
enveloped  in  a  white  plaster-of-Paris-like  cloud  of  dust. 
It  seemed  an  endless  line,  with  their  camouflaged  canvas 
tops  and  sides,  painted  in  great  splashes  of  green  and 
brown.  In  some  of  them  the  men  were  singing  the 
chansons  de  route  that  soldiers  so  love,  and  many  of 
them  had  green  branches  stuck  in  the  sides  as  a  slight 
protection  against  the  sun  and  the  shifting  white  dust. 
The  grass  and  flowers  of  the  wayside  were  as  if  dipped 
in  whitewash,  but  the  road,  like  all  the  roads  of  France 
— those  veins  of  her  body  of  death  and  life — was  in 
excellent  condition.  Next  we  met  a  great  line  of  Red 
Cross  convoys,  and  all  the  time  we  were  swinging 
through  ruined  villages. 

At  the  entrance  to  X.  the  guard  stopped  us  with  his 
bayonet.  Our  papers  being  in  archi  condition,  we 
passed  through  the  little  village  of  the  Quartier -General 
without  further  hindrance.  In  front  of  the  Mairie  there 
is  a  quaint  old  fountain  with  its  statue  of  three  women 
holding  up  a  motif  of  flowers  in  a  basket ;  near  by  there 
is  an  old  hostelry,  Le  Raisin  Blanc,  in  front  of  which 
soldiers  were  sitting,  drinking  their  bocks  and  reading 

43 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

newspapers.  Turning  out  again  on  the  white  road, 
we  pass  settlements  of  Red  Cross  barracks  and  munition 
parks,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  mining  camps  in 
Western  towns  at  home. 

We  arrived  at  Dugny  at  ten  o'clock  and  descended 
to  look  about  for  a  suitable  place  for  the  installing  of  a 
canteen,  which  was  partly  our  reason  for  being  where 
we  were.  There  is  an  old  country  house  in  the  middle 
of  the  little  town,  with  a  coat  of  arms  above  the 
door  and  lions  crouching  on  its  gates ;  behind  is  a  lovely 
ancient  park  with  linden  and  elder  trees  in  full  blossom, 
and  under  them  quiet,  shady  walks.  It  is  used  as  an 
ambulance  station,  and  convalescing  men  were  sitting 
or  lying  about  on  the  ground.  We  met  the  mtdecin- 
chef,  who,  however,  like  all  doctors,  didn't  care  two- 
pence for  well  soldiers,  and  was  but  platonically  inter- 
ested in  the  canteen  matter — just  as  the  military  count 
out  the  sick  and  wounded  soldiers.  It's  all  in  the  point 
of  view. 

As  we  stood  talking  a  German  aeroplane  flew  high 
above  Dugny  outlined  in  a  perfect  sky.  Little  white 
clouds  of  shrapnel  from  the  vertical  guns  began  to 
burst  about  it  in  the  clear  blue,  and  there  was  a  louder 
sound  of  cannonading  as  the  avion  disappeared  in  some 
far  and  upper  ether.  E.  M.'s  brother  had  been  once 
stationed  here  for  months,  and  she  told  the  story  of  his 
meeting  unexpectedly  his  cousin  Casimir.  They  were 
going  different  ways  with  different  detachments,  and 
they  "held  up  the  war"  while  they  embraced!  Smart 
officers,  ahorse  and  afoot,  convoys  going  to  the  trenches 
with  rations,  great  carts  full  of  bread,  and  ambulating 
soup-kitchens  filled  the  little  street.  Verdun  was  but 
seven  kilometers  distant,  and  the  road  lay  straight  be- 
fore us  as  we  left  Dugny.  On  the  horizon  the  outline 
of  the  citadel  and  the  towers  of  the  cathedral  showed 

44 


VERDUN 

against  the  sky.  Another  endless  convoy  of  ambulances 
and  camions  enveloped  us  in  a  choking  white  dust. 
This  is  the  lining  of  the  front,  and  it  is  quite  easy  to 
see  where  the  war  billions  go. 

We  passed  into  Verdun  under  the  Porte  de  France, 
and  then  went  immediately  up  to  the  citadel  through 
the  old  drawbridge,  all  dating  from  the  days  of  Louis 
XIV  and  Vauban,  and  it  was  at  Verdun  that  the  sons 
of  Louis  the  Debonair  met  to  divide  the  empire  of 
Charlemagne.1 

We  got  out  by  the  demolished  barracks,  and  M.  de 
S.  went  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  colonel,  who  was  ex- 
pecting him.  As  I  descended  I  saw  at  my  feet  a  beau- 
tiful tiny  bird's  nest,  which  I  picked  up  with  a  clutching 
at  the  heart.  The  birds  went  away  that  first  terrible 
spring  of  191 6,  the  colonel  afterward  told  me,  but  they 
had  come  back  in  great  numbers  in  191 7,  and  were 
everywhere  building  their  nests,  in  spite  of  the  con- 
tinual bombardments.  The  citadel  was  a  desolate  mass 
of  mortar,  stones,  rusty  barbed  -  wire  entanglements, 
blackened  and  broken  tree  stumps,  but  everywhere,  too, 
were  quantities  of  undiscourageable  new  green. 

We  met  a  young  doctor  coming  across  the  Place,  and 
fell  into  conversation  with  him.  He  had  been  at  the 
front  since  the  beginning,  and  he  was  sad-eyed  in  spite 
of  his  youth.  When  I  spoke  of  the  near-by  tenth- 
century  tower  toppling  and  half -demolished,   all  that 

1  Verdun,  the  Virdunum  of  the  Romans.  In  the  third  century  a  bishop- 
ric was  founded  there  with  Saint  Saintin  as  first  bishop;  843,  the  treaty 
of  Verdun;  after  the  battle  of  Fontanet  the  three  sons  of  Louis  the 
Debonair,  Lothair,  Louis  of  Bavaria,  and  Charles  the  Bald,  divided  the 
empire  of  Charlemagne,  with  the  result  that  not  only  was  France 
separated  from  Germania,  but  her  natural  boundaries,  the  Alps  and  the 
Rhine,  were  lost;  1792,  the  Prussians  besieged  it  in  force  and  it  was 
obliged  to  capitulate  after  two  days;  1870,  a  heroic  defense  lasting 
nearly  three  months  ending  in  capitulation;  1916,  lis  n'onl  pas  passe,  Us 
•ne  passeront  pas. 

45 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

was  left  of  the  ancient  church,  and  the  celebrated  abbey 
of  Saint-Vannes,  and  said  what  a  pity  it  was  that  the 
beautiful  things  of  the  old  days  had  to  go,  he  answered, 
with  a  gesture  of  complete  indifference: 

"Qu'cst-ce  que  celd  fait?  A  nous  qui  restons  de  faire 
de  nouvelles  choses,  et  mieux,  que  rien  ont  fait  nos  aieux. 
All  the  comrades  I  loved  in  the  beginning  are  gone — 
and  what  remains,  or  perishes,  of  brick  and  mortar 
is  of  little  account  beside  the  sum  of  living  things  that 
is  lost." 

Just  at  this  moment  M.  de  S.  appeared  with  the 
colonel,  and  the  young  philosopher  touched  his  cap. 
We  were  then  introduced  to  Colonel  Dehaye,  a  brilliant 
officer  and  delightful  homme  du  monde,  loving  the  arts 
of  peace,  as  I  afterward  discovered,  as  well  as  practising 
those  of  war.  In  his  hands  now  lie  the  destinies  of  Ver- 
dun. He  presented  us  each  then  and  there  with  the 
famous  medal  of  Verdun  and  an  accompanying  paper 
with  his  signature,  and  furthermore  gave  us  an  invita- 
tion to  lunch,  which  we  accepted  with  delight  after 
delicate  references  to  sandwiches  and  wine  in  the  motor. 
We  spent  half  an  hour  walking  about  the  citadel,  and 
he  showed  us  the  most  recent  damage — of  yesterday — 
when  a  very  especially  precise  aim  of  the  Germans  had 
destroyed  nearly  everything  that  had  been  left. 

Then  we  descended  really  into  the  bowels  of  the 
earth,  cemented,  white-tiled,  electric-lighted,  artificially 
aired  bowels,  to  the  very  depths  of  the  great  fortress. 
To  get  to  the  mess-room  of  the  colonel  and  his  staff  we 
had  to  pass  through  a  long  room  where  perhaps  a  hun- 
dred officers  were  sitting  at  dinner.  There  was  some- 
thing deeply  impressive  about  the  dim,  long,  low  length 
of  it,  and  those  groups  of  men  prepared  for  battle. 
Thoughts  of  Knights  Templar  and  Crusaders  came  to 
me,  and  there  seemed  something  of  consecration  about 

46 


ijr> 


I ZDycuntr  Ja  /Z  Jain  iO/jf- 


4 


^i .^M^uVs.7.  «.i»ij, 


JtxXcded 


\H' 


VERDUN 

it  all.     Behind  the  tables  on  the  walls  were  hung  hel- 
mets and  arms. 

A  young  officer  said  to  me  once,  "We  don't  tell  all 
our  stories  there  and  we  don't  often  laugh  very  loud." 

From  it  we  got  into  the  small,  well-lighted  mess- 
room,  where  kings  and  presidents  and  premiers  and 
generalissime,  too,  have  dined  in  the  past  few  months. 

The  staff  and  Paul  Renouard,  the  painter,  were  wait- 
ing, and  we  sat  down  immediately  to  an  excellent  dinner, 
though  the  colonel  said  it  was  entirely  a  Vimproviste. 
There  were  flowers  on  the  table,  too,  but  these  I  did 
suspect  were  specially  for  us.  The  colonel  remarked, 
with  the  hors-d'oeuvre,  that  he  would  take  us  to  the 
battle-field  after  dinner,  to  the  famous  Fort  de  Souville, 
and  the  repast,  instead  of  a  meal,  became  the  prelude 
to  a  supreme  climax.  The  arrival  of  General  Pershing 
was  the  first  subject  of  conversation,  accompanied  by 
the  most  courteous  and  appreciative  remarks ;  one  of  the 
officers  told  of  the  first  day  when  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
had  appeared  in  the  field  with  the  other  flags,  and  of  the 
cheers  that  went  up.  And  they  drank  to  the  United 
States,  and  we  drank  to  France;  they  praised  the  work 
of  women,  and  spoke  of  the  immense  moral  and  prac- 
tical aid  of  the  entry  into  the  war  of  the  United  States. 
Whether  it  would  shorten  the  conflict  was  another  ques- 
tion.    To  the  captain  sitting  opposite  I  said: 

' '  If  the  soul  of  the  war  has  a  special  dwelling-place  it 
is  Verdun,"  and  told  him  how  the  thought  of  America 
turned  about  it ,  those  days  of  February  and  March  of 
19 16.  "But,"  I  added,  "there  was  a  time  when  I 
thought  they  might  get  through." 

The  commandant  answered  quickly  from  the  other 
end  of  the  table:  "Ah,  madame,  there  was  a  time  when 
we  thought  they  might  get  through,  mais  '  Us  n'ont  pas 
passe" — Us  ne  passer  out  pas.'" 

47 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

And  then  I  quoted  the  beautiful  phrase  of  the  Com- 
mentaircs  de  Polybe:1 

"Et  Verdun,  en  mines,  avec  scs  soldats,  debouts,  tou- 
jours  dans  la  tempete,  comme  il  rCy  en  a  jamais  eu  de  plus 
beaux  .  .  .  avec  Nivclle,  et  avec  Petain,  avec  Vimage  de 
Raynal  qui  vient  rodcr  la  nuit  dans  les  decombres  de 
Vaux  et  avec  le  paraphe  de  Castelnau  sur  cet  autre  Cou- 
ronne.  ..." 

We  ended  a  most  pleasant  repast,  with  its  great  under 
throb,  by  coffee  and  tilleul  and  a  little  glass  of  cassis 
(black-currant  cordial),  the  native  liqueur. 

Then,  on  into  a  room  where  we  pulled  up  our  coat- 
collars  so  no  white  would  show,  slung  the  bags  contain- 
ing the  gas-masks  across  our  chests,  left  our  flowers, 
parasols,  and  other  impedimenta,  and  went  out  through 
the  long,  dim  now  empty  hall  to  get  into  the  autos.  We 
waited  half  an  hour  for  ours,  which  had  performed  the 
seemingly  impossible  feat  of  getting  lost  in  Verdun. 
The  officers  began  to  get  impatient,  and  M.  de  S.  to 
make  bitter  remarks  about  his  chauffeur;  the  colonel  to 
walk  up  and  down.  The  commandant  said,"  Du  calmc," 
and  the  colonel  answered  that  only  sous-lieutenants 
savent  avoir  du  calme.  "lis  sont  etonnants"  said  another 
officer  with  four  stripes  on  his  arm. 

Finally  our  man  appeared,  with  a  story  no  one  lis- 
tened to,  Colonel  Dehaye  getting  in  with  us,  the  other 
officers  leading  the  way  in  his  auto. 

It  was  two  o'clock,  and  a  white,  burning  sun  was 
shining  on  a  white,  burning  earth  as  we  drove  through 
the  crumbling  streets,  through  houses  in  every  stage  of 
ruin,  to  the  great  plain  of  La  Woevre,  toward  the  dread- 
ful, scarred  battle-field,  where  the  chariot  of  God  rides 
the  ridges. 

Verdun  is  built  to  reinforce  the  natural  rampart  of 

1  Neuvieme  serie. 
48 


VERDUN 

the  Cotes  de  Meuse,  to  bar  the  passage  of  the  river's 
valley,  and  cover  the  Argonne. 

As  we  passed  out  of  the  town  on  one  side  was  a  ceme- 
tery where  sleep  four  thousand,  on  another  side  sleep 
twenty  thousand — and  these  are  but  a  handful  to  the 
numbers  that  lie  everywhere  in  the  white,  scarred 
earth  around  Verdun.  The  colonel  named  various  bat- 
tered places  as  we  passed — Fleury,  Tavannes,  etc.,  and 
finally  we  climbed  a  steep  hillside  near  the  celebrated 
Fort  de  Souville,  where  we  left  the  motors.  The  abomi- 
nation of  desolation  over  which  we  passed  once  had 
been  a  green,  smiling,  wooded,  gently  rolling  hillside. 
The  village  of  Tavannes  was  but  a  spot  of  white  horror, 
even  with  the  ground.  The  hills  of  Douaumont  and 
Thiaumont  had  on  their  blanched  sides  only  a  few 
blackened  stumps  of  trees  that  will  not  leaf  again.  To 
the  left  as  we  looked  about  were  the  fateful  summits  of 
Le  Mort  Homme  and  Hill  304  with  a  white  ribbon  of 
road  running  between.  We  walked  along,  stumbling 
over  heaps  of  water-bottles,  haversacks,  helmets,  car- 
tridge-belts, belonging  alike  to  the  invader  and  the 
invaded — bones,  skulls,  rusty  rolls  of  barbed  wire,  re- 
mains of  obns,  and  mixed  with  what  lies  in  the  earth 
of  fair  and  brave  and  dear  are  myriads  of  unexploded 
shells.  The  country  round  Verdun,  despite  the  rich 
blood  that  could  render  it  so  fertile,  can't  be  cultivated 
for  years  on  account  of  the  vast  quantities  of  shells 
buried  in  it.  A  man  pulls  a  piece  of  wire,  and  he  loses 
his  hand,  another  tries  to  clear  away  bits  of  some- 
thing round,  and  his  head  is  blown  off.  One  of  the 
officers  told  us  of  societies  for  the  demineralization  of 
battle-fields,  but  the  work  is  slow  and  costly. 

Yet  a  winter's  snows  had  lain  upon  it  all  and  spring 
had  breathed  over  it  since  the  first  awful  combats  of 
February,    1916.     I    knew    suddenly    some    complete 

49 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

"heartbreak  over  fallen  things"  as  I  stumbled,  and, 
looking  down,  saw  at  my  feet  a  helmet,  and  by  it  a 
skull  with  insects  crawling  in  and  out  the  eyes,  and  a 
broken  gun-stock. 

Great  and  gorgeous  patches  of  scarlet  poppies  in  a 
profusion  never  seen  before  splash  themselves  like  some- 
thing else  red  against  the  white  earth,  or  fill  great 
shell  hollows  and  spill  and  slop  over  the  fields.  .  .  . 

The  Germans  had  been  shelling  a  near-by  75  battery 
that  very  morning,  and  fresh  bits  of  warm  shrapnel 
were  lying  all  about  as  we  twisted  in  and  out  of  the 
boyaux.  I  brought  away  but  a  small  bit  with  me,  hav- 
ing early  discovered  that  a  small  piece  is  as  good  a 
reminder  as  a  big  bit,  and  much  easier  to  carry.  We 
passed  the  grave  of  a  soldier  buried  where  he  had  fallen, 
a  few  hours  before.  His  shallow  grave,  with  its  little 
cross,  was  running  red,  but  he  was  mayhap  already  in 
his  Father's  house  of  many  mansions. 

In  many  places  under  the  feet  scarcely  buried  bodies 
gave  an  elastic  sensation.  .  .  . 

We  first  visited  the  emplacement  of  a  great  gun 
worked  by  the  most  complicated  electric  machinery, 
something  that  seemed  built  as  strongly  as  the  Pyra- 
mids, revolving  on  its  great  axis,  at  a  touch  fulfilling 
that  which  it  was  cast  into  being  to  perform.  When 
we  came  out,  we  climbed  some  last  white  scarred  heights 
that  the  colonel  called  ilLes  PyrGnies"  and  there, 
stretched  out,  was  the  whole  great  and  fateful  panorama 
of  Verdun — ' ' par  oil  Us  rCont  pas  passe"."  I  thought  of  the 
men  I  had  known  who  had  been  engaged  in  those  dread- 
ful attacks,  whose  mothers  and  wives  had  looked  upon 
them  again,  and  of  others  still  whose  wives  and  mothers 
would  behold  them  no  more.  And  I  had  again  a  break- 
ing of  the  heart  over  the  vast  tangle,  and  cried  within 
myself,  "Shall  all  the  world  be  a  valley  of  dry  bones?" 

5° 


OUR   PARTY   ON  THE    BATTLE-FIELD   AT     VERDUN,   JUNE    17,    I917 


IN  THE    BOYAUX,    VERDUN,    JUNE    17,    1917 


VERDUN 

Then  we  hid  ourselves  in  some  boyaux  well  out  of 
sight,  for  we  were  nearing  a  camouflaged  battery,  two 
of  whose  guns  nad  been  silenced  that  very  morning. 
In  dark  woods  over  beyond  Tavannes  the  Germans 
were  intrenched,  and  their  shells  were  also  falling  thick- 
ly over  Douaumont  and  Thiaumont.  It  was  the  front 
indeed.  It  was  at  Tavannes  that  in  a  dreadful  moment, 
in  a  moment  such  as  can  happen  anywhere,  artillery 
fire  had  been  trained  on  thousands  of  men  who  were 
rushing  to  the  top  in  a  great  charge.  And  yet  I  kept 
thinking  of  the  words  of  a  dead  hero,  ' '  Nothing  but  good 
can  befall  the  soldier,  so  he  plays  his  part  well."  * 

At  that  moment  the  enemy  began  to  send  an  un- 
wonted number  of  shells,  which  were  exploding  just 
behind  Thiaumont,  so  the  colonel  told  the  captain  of 
artillery — who  had  joined  our  party  at  the  gun  em- 
placement— to  answer,  and  he  climbed  down  a  steep 
decline  to  his  masked  battery.  In  a  few  minutes,  as  we 
lay  hidden  in  the  boyau,  twenty  discharges  sounded; 
but  shells  that  go  up,  come  down,  and  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hill  we  were  watching,  who  shall  say  what 
agony?  I  am  so  constituted  that  I  cannot  think  of  the 
passage  of  any  soul  into  the  next  life  other  than  with 
awe. 

We  then  descended  into  the  Fort  of  Souville,  down 
850  feet,  where  men  live  and  breathe  and  have  their 
being  in  dimly  lighted,  damp,  narrow  spaces.  But  it 
seemed  temporarily  like  heaven  to  be  out  of  the  glare 
and  the  heat.  Preceded  by  lanterns,  an  officer  in  front 
of  each  one  of  us,  we  crept  or  felt  our  way  up  and  down, 
stumbling  through  vault-like  passages,  where  we  would 
come  upon  men  lying  asleep  in  damp,  dim  places,  or 
writing  by  the  light  of  lanterns,  or  preparing  meals  in 
their  kitchen,  or  waiting  at  the  little  dispensary,  and 
1  Alan  Seeger,  Letters  and  Diary. 

5* 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

then  we  stumbled  up  again  into  the  heat,  reverberating 
from  the  white  hills. 

On  the  way  back  we  passed  a  little  chapel  installed 
in  an  old  cemented  dugout.  On  the  altar  were  many 
flowers.  I  bent  and  peered  into  the  dimness,  and,  as 
I  knelt,  it  seemed  to  me  that  never  had  I  so  understood 
the  words  Introibo  ad  Altar c  Dei.  I  thought  of  the 
Lamb  of  God,  and  martyrs  new  and  old,  and  the  cata- 
combs and  the  primitive  Church.  .  .  .  Again  men  in 
stress  were  worshiping  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 

We  were  photographed  against  a  particularly  sinister 
group  of  blackened  trees,  and  we  picked  up  some  hel- 
mets and  bits  of  obus.  As  I  write,  the  couronne  of  one, 
quite  evenly  exploded,  lies  on  the  little  table  by  my  side. 

Just  before  getting  into  town  the  colonel  ordered  the 
motor  to  stop,  and  we  got  out,  and,  walking  through  a 
field  of  deep,  waving  grass,  found  ourselves  in  the  largest 
of  the  cemeteries  with  its  long,  even  lines  of  broad  graves 
where  lie,  in  a  last  co-mingling,  the  brothers  of  France, 
and  I  repeated  to  myself  in  a  quiver  of  feeling,  "Scio 
quod  Rcdemptor  mens  vivit  ct  in  novissimc  die  resnrrcc- 
turus  sum  ct  in  came  mea  videbo  Deum  Salvatorum  meum." 

All  was  in  beautiful  order.  The  crosses  bore  some- 
times a  name,  but  oftener  a  number  only:  140  soldats, 
or  Sj  soldats.  The  round  tricolor  badge  hung  from 
every  cross.  There  were  a  few  graves  of  officers  who 
could  be  identified,  their  bodies  having  been  brought 
in  by  friends  or  faithful  orderlies.  How  anything  could 
live  on  those  fire-swept  hills  is  the  wonder,  not  that 
any  one  died.  Suddenly,  again,  a  great  sadness  fell  upon 
me,  and  as  the  colonel  pointed  out  the  grave  of  an  es- 
pecially dear  comrade — Colonel  Dubois,  I  think  his 
name  was — dead  in  some  heroic  manner,  I  could  look 
no  more. 

We  finally  got  back  into  the  green  freshness  of  Ver- 

52 


VERDUN 

dun,  whose  normal  state,  I  see,  is  to  be  vine-bowered, 
tree-shaded,  grass-carpeted.  After  the  scarred  and 
blazing  battle-field,  and  in  spite  of  the  ruined  streets, 
the  roofless  houses,  I  had  a  feeling  of  refreshment,  com- 
ing from  those  heights  where  "all  the  round  world  is 
indeed  a  sepulcher"  .  .  .  and  near  the  station  is  the 
monument  to  the  heroes  fallen  at  Verdun  in  1870. 

Of  the  Cercle  Militaire  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Meuse 
little  is  left  except  the  walls,  but  it  is  no  loss  architect- 
urally, and  messieurs  les  otficiers  are  otherwise  engaged. 
The  banks  of  the  Meuse  are  a  pitiful  sight.  The  old 
houses  that  reach  over  the  water  are  roofless,  bits  of 
mattress  hang  from  broken  windows,  and  heaps  of  mor- 
tar are  falling  into  the  river.  The  great  Porte  Chaussee 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  with  its  two  huge  gray  towers, 
is  unharmed.  We  stopped  at  the  theater  for  a  moment. 
A  big  shell  last  month  had  made  a  sort  of  pudding  of 
it.  We  crept  in  through  a  large  aperture,  to  find  the 
orchestra  stalls  precipitated  onto  the  stage,  and  the 
loges  sagging,  ready  to  fall.  We  then  went  up  into  the 
old,  high  part  of  the  town,  and  Colonel  Dehaye,  a  true 
lover  of  the  arts,  in  sadness  showed  us  the  cathedral  and 
the  charming  old  buildings  that  surround  it.  The  huge 
church  constructed  according  to  Germanic  traditions 
has  two  equal  transepts,  with  high  and  beautiful  vault- 
ing, which  is  now  so  damaged  that  the  roof  at  any 
time  may  fall.  Inside  were  masses  of  debris,  and 
nothing  was  left  of  the  famous  stained-glass  windows 
except  powdery  bits  of  color  on  the  floor.  The  colonel 
had  rescued  some  old  Spanish  Stations  of  the  Cross, 
and  had  put  in  safety  a  few  other  portable  things  of 
value.  We  passed  out  through  the  sacristy,  which  was 
a  scene  of  disorder,  bits  of  vestment,  torn  altar-cloths, 
and  books  lying  about  on  the  floor. 

"But,"  I  said,  "the  Germans  didn't  get  here?" 
5  53 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

"Oh,"  answered  one  of  the  officers,  with  a  smile, 
"ce  sont  nos  bons  francais" 

Then  we  descended  into  the  crypt,  the  remains  of  the 
church  that  Pope  Eugene  III  built  in  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury. Leading  down  to  it  is  an  old  winding  stair,  with 
a  delicious  eighteenth-century  wrought-iron  railing.  An 
artist  in  a  white  blouse,  sent  to  restore  some  frescoes 
dating  from  the  twelfth  century,  was  rescuing  from  too 
complete  destruction  a  beautiful  figure  of  Christ  with 
something  stern  and  immutable  in  His  look,  reminding 
me  of  the  Christ  in  the  church  of  San  Cosmo  and  San 
Damiano  in  the  Roman  Forum.  We  then  went  into 
the  cloisters,  with  lovely  and  diverse  motifs  on  their 
vaultings,  very  much  damaged  in  parts,  a  big  shell 
having  landed  in  the  courtyard  which  they  inclose. 
M.  Renouard  had  stationed  himself  there  with  his 
easel,  before  a  beautiful  arrangement  of  trees  and  grass 
and  enchanting  old  statues  on  mossy  pedestals.  In 
front  of  him  was  a  great  heap  of  fallen  masonry,  and  a 
beautiful  bit  of  toppling  vaulting  that  the  colonel  had 
had  propped  up  by  beams,  though  he  said:  " Demain  ou 
apres-demain  cela  ne  sera  plus — it's  all  at  the  mercy  of 
a  shot."  A  sculptured  Holy  Family,  somewhat  the 
worse  for  war,  is  plastered  into  one  side,  dating  from  the 
fourteenth  century. 

From  there  we  passed  into  what  had  been  a  seminary 
until  1 9 14,  and  one  of  the  rooms  with  rows  of  lavabos 
(not  of  the  eighteenth  century,  as  the  colonel  observed) 
looked  out  on  the  great  plain  of  La  Woevre,  and  again 
the  fateful  panorama  was  unrolled  before  us.  In  what 
had  been  a  council-room  there  was  an  old  choir  high  up 
over  the  door,  with  a  little  balcony  giving  a  Spanish 
effect. 

Coming  out,  at  the  north  side  of  the  church,  an  an- 
cient Romanesque  statue  of  Adam  and  Eve  on   the 

54 


VERDUN 

outer  hemicycle  of  the  apse  and  some  little  windows, 
also  of  pure  Romanesque,  were  pointed  out  to  us.  In 
the  ground  underneath  the  statue  of  Adam  and  Eve 
a  great  shell  had  opened  up  a  Roman  foundation  and 
walls,  formed  of  immense  square  blocks  of  stone,  hid- 
den during  ages. 

Near  the  church  is  the  great  Cour  d'Honneur,  once 
the  house  of  the  bishop,  a  very  perfect  example  of  Louis 
XIV,  making  me  think  of  Versailles;  but  it,  too,  has 
received  many  a  blow  in  its  lovely  heart.  One  longed 
so  to  bandage  up  all  those  wounds  of  war,  preserve  in 
being  those  lovelinesses  of  another  age. 

We  then  visited  the  house  of  Pope  Julius  II  (I  forget 
what  he  was  doing  at  Verdun),  which,  fortunately,  has 
not  suffered  much  up  to  now,  though  it,  too,  is  at  the 
mercy  of  a  shot — to-night,  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day. 
It  would  make  a  perfect  museum,  with  its  beautiful 
old  door,  bearing  inscription  and  date,  through  which 
one  passes  into  a  tiny  V-shaped  court  with  a  flowering 
linden-tree,  and  there  are  two  romantic  winding  stone 
stairways,  with  something  Boccaccioesque  about  them, 
leading  to  the  upper  stories. 

Though  it  wasn't  an  occasion  in  which  to  think  how 
one  felt,  the  flesh  was  weary  by  this  time,  and  we  went 
gladly  back  to  the  colonel's  mess-room,  where  we  had 
tea,  or  rather,  to  be  exact,  some  ice-cold  champagne 
coupe  d'eau,  and  some  sort  of  madeleine,  a  specialty 
of  Verdun,  which  gave  us  the  little  flip-up  that  we  needed. 
Another  specialty  of  Verdun  is  the  dragees  (hard, 
sugared  almonds),  but  the  factory,  so  one  of  the  officers 
said,  had  been  destroyed  the  year  before  in  one  of  the 
bombardments.  Generations  of  tourists  having  broken 
their  teeth  on  them,  however,  we  wasted  no  regrets. 

The  colonel  begged  us  to  stay  for  dinner,  and  the 
cinematograph  representation  after,  but  we  were  ob- 

55 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

liged  to  regretfully  decline,  as  we  had  to  pay  our  respects 

to  the  general  at  Y ,  to  whose  courtesy  M.  de  S. 

owed  the  safe-conducts  to  Verdun.  As  we  passed  by 
we  looked  into  the  long,  narrow  hall  where  the  repre- 
sentations are  given,  the  sight  of  which  the  colonel 
offered  as  further  inducement.  It  would  have  ennobled 
for  me  forever  that  most  boresome  of  modern  things, 
had  I  assisted  at  one  underneath  the  citadel  of  Verdun. 
The  hall  was  hung  with  flags  of  the  Allies.  With  sudden 
tears  I  saluted,  ours  waving  among  them. 

We  thanked  a  thousand  times  the  colonel  and  his 
group  of  officers  standing  by  the  auto  at  the  entrance  to 
the  subterranean  passage,  and  though  I  had  a  con- 
sciousness of  the  uncertainty  of  their  lives,  I  thought 
again  "Nothing  but  good  can  befall  the  soldier,  so  he 
plays  his  part  well." 

Now  comes  to  mind  a  conversation  I  had  before  I 
ever  dreamed  of  going  to  Verdun,  when  I  talked  for  three 
hours  of  battles  and  scars  with  a  young  hero  wounded 
on  Hill  304,  June  9,  1916.  He  is  a  flashing-eyed,  straight- 
featured,  tall,  slim-waisted  young  hero  who  knows  what 
it  is  to  have  made,  and  with  astounding  ease,  the  sac- 
rifice of  the  life  that  he  loves  so,  and  drinks  in  full 
bumpers.  And  this  is  part  of  what  we  said,  one  of  a 
thousand,  of  ten  thousand,  of  a  hundred  thousand 
happenings,  of  which  Verdun  is  the  golden  frame: 

De  G. — "There  was  something  hanging  about  Ver- 
dun; 'lis  ne  passeront  pas,  et  Us  ne  sont  pas  passes.1  If 
the  enemy  could  have  but  known  how  thinly,  poorly,  in 
so  many  places  it  was  defended!  It  was  seemingly  the 
will  of  Heaven  rather  than  the  strength  of  mortals  that 
they  were  not  to  pass,  not  man,  not  artillery,  but  the 
high  destiny  of  nations. 

"When  I  lay  during  those  hours  at  the  postc  d'observa- 

56 


VERDUN 

Hon  on  Hill  304,  in  front  of  the  French  army,  signaling 
'shell  square  17,'  or  16,  or  whatever  it  might  be,  I  could 
see  clearly  the  havoc  in  the  German  ranks  as  the  shells 
would  fall.  Great  groups  of  men  would  be  blown  to 
atoms  and  new  formations  would  press  in  to  take  their 
place.  The  whole  horror  was  there  before  me,  mapped 
out  in  numbered  squares. 

"I  dismissed  all  my  men  except  my  orderly  of  the 
fourth  Zouaves,  who  wouldn't  have  gone,  anyway.  It 
was  a  work  I  could  do  alone,  lying  with  a  sand-bag 
against  my  head,  my  field-glasses  in  my  hand,  and  be- 
fore me  my  field  map  held  down  by  four  sticks.  We 
lay  there  just  under  the  crest  of  the  hill  from  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning  until  the  next  afternoon,  watching  seven 
attacks.  Toward  three  o'clock  I  was  wounded,  and 
I  knew  it  was  only  a  question  of  time  and  chance 
when  I  would  lie  like  the  dead  man  at  my  side,  that 
Dueso  had  been  pressing  his  feet  against,  and  whose 
place  I  had  been  sent  to  take.  Almost  at  the  same  mo- 
ment I  caught  sight  of  Dueso  spinning  around,  holding 
his  elbows  to  his  side,  and  crying  out:  'Norn  de  Dieu! 
Norn  de  Dieu!  I've  got  it  in  the  arm!' — but  trying 
with  the  other  hand  to  undo  his  cravate. 

"Two  jets  of  blood  were  now  spurting  like  two 
faucets  from  my  leg,  the  big  artery  was  cut.  Qa  y  est. 
In  five  minutes  I'll  be  dead,  I  thought,  and  there  came 
a  fainting  away  and  a  thinking  not  on  God,  but  on  still 
untasted  joys  of  the  flesh  and  life — not  even  on  my 
mother's  grief;  and  waking  up  after  years,  it  seemed, 
and  calling  for  water,  and  Dueso  bending  over  me, 
after  a  frantic  twisting  at  his  cravate,  and  a  frantic 
pulling  and  tightening  of  it  about  my  leg,  with  one 
hand  and  his  teeth,  and  then  a  pleasant,  happy  fainting 
away.  A  delicious  sensation  of  ease  invaded  me,  and 
I  said  to  myself,  lCe  n'est  que  ca,  mourirV  ('Is  death 

57 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

only  this?')  I  have  seen  so  many  men  die,  and  what- 
ever their  agonies,  if  long  or  short,  minutes  or  hours  or 
days,  as  it  may  happen,  just  before  dying  something 
gentle  and  simple  takes  place." 

E.  O'S. — "The  inevitable  dust  to  dust,  the  natural 
law  fulfilling  itself?" 


xc> 


De  G. — "It  may  be.  This  rictus  de  la  mort,  I  haven't 
seen  it,  though  I  have  heard  men  screaming  and  cursing 
and  praying  in  the  trenches  as  they  got  their  blow,  and 
watched  their  agonies,  but  before  death  something  else, 
softer,  always  happens.  Unless  it  comes  too  suddenly. 
I  remember  once  being  on  the  dunes  in  Belgium,  and 
against  the  yellow  sand  men  were  sitting  in  red  trousers 
and  chechias,  and  one  was  telling  a  tale  of  laughter 
when  a  shell  burst.  In  a  moment  the  blood  of  his 
brains  was  flowing  red  upon  the  yellow  sand,  and  then 
it  got  blue,  and  then  it  sank  and  was  no  more,  like  the 
laughing  man  himself  from  whom  it  flowed,  and  his  tale 
of  laughter.  .  .  .  About  nine  o'clock  we  were  brought  in. 
Dueso  had  been  lying  with  his  head  under  my  armpit, 
and  his  feet  still  on  the  dead  man,  and  we  would  both 
come  out  of  a  faint  from  time  to  time  and  ask  for  water. 

"Dueso!  ah,  Dueso!  for  a  human  being  il  est  plus 
chic  que  moi.  He  had  been  in  jail  for  various  reasons 
not  very  chic,  and  I  was  warned  against  him  when  I 
took  him  for  my  orderly,  but  to  him  I  owe  my  life. 
Now  he  is  in  Salonique,  cite  a  I'armee,  knows  how  to  live 
in  those  regions,  hard  as  nails,  originally  from  Tunis;  a 
dark  man,  with  dark  mustache  and  very  big  white  teeth." 

E.  O'S. — "One  thinks  so  often  how  little  the  common 
soldier,  defending  honors  and  riches  that  he  doesn't 
share,  has  to  gain.     There  is  nothing  for  him,  in  fact, 

58 


VERDUN 

except  to  step  out  into  anonymous  death;  at  a  given 
moment  to  make  the  sacrifice  of  his  life,  or  his  eyes  or 
his  limbs,  knowing  nothing  of  war  except  its  horror, 
rarely  any  glory,  sometimes  a  mention  or  a  medal, 
oftener  not.  But,"  I  continued,  after  we  had  sat  silent 
for  a  while,  "who  will  carry  it  all  on?  Few  like  yourself 
are  left,  and  it  is  not  enough.  France  is  bleeding  white — 
France,  whose  sons  are  heroes,  not  fathers!" 

De  G. — "What  does  it  matter  if  we  do  go?  There 
are  the  little  ones  coming  on.  It  will  be  like  something 
out  of  which  a  whole  piece  has  been  cut  and  the  ends 
must  be  sewed  together.  The  very  old,  and  the  very 
young,  the  children,  are  these  ends.  We  shall  have  done 
what  we  were  born  to  do.  This  is  the  immortal  history 
of  France  that  we  have  made,  her  chant  du  cygne,  too, 
the  most  beautiful  of  her  epics  and  it  is  enough  to  have 
lived  for  that.  To  others  the  carrying  on  of  the  genera- 
tions. .  .  ." 

A  pale  rose  light  begins  to  come  in  at  the  window, 
but  sleep  cometh  not.  Fortunately,  if  need  be,  I  can 
do  without  it,  but  I  must  close  my  eyes  now.  He,  too, 
watching  over  Israel,  slumbers  not  nor  sleeps.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   IX 


A 


CHALONS.  —  CHATEAU     DE     JEAN     D'HEURS. REVIGNY, 

THE    "LINING"    OF   THE    FRONT 

EACH,  on  comparing  notes,  was  found  to  have  spent 
the  night  on  the  outside  of  the  bed.  One  of  the 
party,  who  naturally  wishes  to  remain  anonymous, 
found  a  cafard,  the  classic  cockroach,  in  her  ear  toward 
dawn,  and  Aurora  was  welcomed  by  no  hymn  of  praise 
from  her. 

Now  we  are  sitting  drinking  lemonade  on  the  pave- 
ment in  front  of  the  abode  of  iniquity.  We  have  been 
twice  through  the  hot  town,  which  consists  of  a  modern 
town  around  the  station,  and  a  picturesque  old  one  on 
a  hill  at  the  back,  to  find  the  proper  authorities  for  the 
stamping  of  our  papers  with  the  military  permis  to  go 
to  the  chateau  of  Jean  d'Heurs,  belonging  to  Madame 
Achille  Fould,  for  luncheon.  We  caught  the  major  by 
a  hair's  breadth ;  he  was  disappearing  around  the  corner 
by  the  military  commandature  on  his  bicycle.  Then  to  the 
prefecture  for  permission  to  telephone  to  Chalons  for 
rooms  that  night;  on  returning,  found  Miss  M.  and 
Miss  N.  awaiting  us.  They  have  been  working  at  the 
"Foyer  des  Allies "  near  the  station.  They  want  now  to 
get  a  much-needed  canteen  in  shape  at  Chalons,  and  are 
asking  us  to  help.  The  word  from  the  colonel  of  Ver- 
dun is  an  "open  sesame,"  and  we  will  investigate  en 

route  to  Paris. 

60 


CHALONS 

ChaXons-sur-Marne,  io  o'clock  p.m. 

It's  been  as  long  as  to  Tipperary  since  the  scrawl  at 
Bar-le-Duc. 

At  11.30  we  got  into  the  comfortable  motor  Madame 
Fould  sent  to  bring  us  to  Jean  d'Heurs'  for  lunch.  It's 
a  beautiful  old  chateau  of  the  eighteenth  century,  given 
by  Napoleon  to  the  Marechal  Oudinot,  and  in  the  Fould 
family  since  those  days,  though  not  lived  in  until  the 
war  by  the  present  generation.  It  made  us  feel  quite 
like  "folks"  as  a  side- whiskered,  highly  respectable, 
rather  aged  majordomo  received  us  and  led  us  up  a 
broad  stairway  and  showed  us  into  a  big  library  where 
Madame  Fould,  her  seven  infirmtires,  and  a  young  officer 
were  waiting.  After  that,  a  perfect  lunch  in  the  way  of 
each  thing  being  of  the  freshest  and  most  delicate  and 
tasting  of  itself.  The  young  officer  was  recovering  from 
a  wound  received  at  Verdun  last  September,  followed  by 
a  trepanning,  evidently  highly  successful,  as,  in  addi- 
tion to  all  his  senses,  he  had  a  thick  mat  of  hair. 

The  library,  to  which  we  returned  for  coffee,  was 
lined  with  the  most  precious  books  in  the  most  precious 
bindings,  one  whole  side  containing  first  editions  only 
from  Voltaire  and  J. -J.  Rousseau  to  Chateaubriand  and 
Taine.  And  I  ran  my  fingers  with  such  a  friendly  feeling 
over  some  soft  and  lustrous  bindings. 

The  vast  spaces  of  the  chateau  are  now  made  into 
wards,  and  relays  of  several  hundred  men  are  cared  for 
in  them.  White  hospital  beds  are  pushed  against 
elaborately  frescoed  walls  and  Empire  gildings.  Every- 
thing in  spotless  order.  Afterward  we  went  out  into 
the  beautiful  old  park,  where  convalescent  men  were 
sitting  or  lying  about  under  the  great  trees.  The  park 
is  now  closed  to  visitors,  the  fair  sex  from  neighboring 
villages  having  been  too  generous  in  their  offerings  on 
the  altar  of  Priapus.     It's  a  lovely  spot,  and  Madame 

61 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

Fould  has  had  her  hospital  going  since  the  beginning  of 
the  war. 

At  two  o'clock  we  motored  into  Revigny,  accom- 
panied by  the  handsome  young  trepanned  officer,  who 
deposited  us  at  the  military  headquarters  for  the  stamp- 
ing of  our  safe-conducts.  Mrs.  C.  P.,  who  can  put  her 
head  through  a  stone  wall,  without  injuring  it,  as  neatly 
as  any  one  I  ever  saw,  proceeded  to  perform  the  feat, 
with  the  result  that  the  major  in  command  gave  us  all 
permission  for  the  next  ttape,  Chalons.  Then  Mrs. 
C.  P.'s  young  son,  serving  with  the  American  Ambu- 
lance, met  us,  motoring  over  from  Z ;  a  friend  came 

with  him,  originally  from  Swarthmore,  Pennsylvania, 
rather  discouraged  at  the  quiet  of  the  secteur  in  which 
he  was  stationed.  But  all  he  has  to  do  is  to  wait. 
Everybody  at  the  front  eventually  gets  what's  "coming 
to  him."  Mrs.  C.  P.'s  boy  had  on  his  Croix  de  Guerre, 
got  for  fearless  ambulance  work  at  Verdun  during  one 
of  the  big  attacks. 

Revigny  seen  from  the  inside  is  a  hole  of  holes — 
but  through  it  defile  continually  the  blue-clad  men  of 
France.  Twelve  thousand  had  already  passed  through 
that  day.  In  the  carrefour  of  the  road  by  the  station  is  a 
ceaseless  line  of  convoys  coming  from  or  going  to  Verdun. 
This  once  banal  little  village  has  come  to  have  something 
symbolic  about  it,  though  looking,  as  one  passes  by,  like 
dozens  of  other  destroyed  villages.  But  inside  it  is  the 
lining  of  the  war — that  thing  of  dust,  fatigue,  thirst, 
hunger,  sadness,  fear,  despondence,  hopelessness,  run- 
ning up  and  down  the  gamut  of  spiritual  and  physical 
miseries.     "Theirs  not  to  reason  why."  .  .  . 

The  English  canteen  is  the  only  bright  spot  in  the 
whole  place.  Those  sad-eyed  men,  like  us,  love  and 
regret,  and  are  beloved  and  regretted;  women  have  let 
them  go  in  fear  and  dread;    and  all  over  Europe  it  is 

62 


CHALONS 

the  same,  east,  west,  north,  and  south — all  they  love 
they  lay  down  at  the  word  of  command.  I  watched  for 
an  hour  the  blue  stream  of  heavily  laden  men  as  they 
passed  in,  coming  up  to  the  counter  with  their  battered 
quart  cups,  drinking  their  coffee  standing,  in  haste,  that 
the  comrade  following  might  be  sure  to  get  his  drink, 
the  sweat  dripping  from  their  faces.  Fifteen  minutes 
later  a  great  thunder-storm  broke,  and  thousands  of 
sad-eyed  men  were  huddled  together,  shelterless,  like 
sheep,  suddenly  soaked;  the  hateful  dust  became  the 
still  more  hateful  mud.  I  left  it  all  in  complete  desola- 
tion of  spirit,  and  wondering,  Is  God  in  His  heaven? 

Revigny  was  worse  to  my  spiritual  sense  almost  than 
the  battle-field — there  all  was  consummated.  Here  the 
men  are  still  passing  up  to  sacrifice. 


CHAPTER   X 

MONT     FRENET. — LA     CHAMPAGNE     POUILLEUSE. — THE 

RETURN 

Chalons,  10  p.m. 

WE  dashed  into  the  train  at  Revigny  during  the 
hail-storm,  an  infernal  kind  that  didn't  cool  the 
air,  and  arrived  at  Chalons  at  six  o'clock.  No  cabs,  at 
least  none  for  us,  so  we  begged  two  Quaker  women  with 
the  red-and-white  star  in  the  little  black  triangle  on 
their  sleeves,  who  were  getting  into  the  only  visible 
conveyance,  to  take  our  luggage  and  deposit  it  for  us 
at  the  Hotel  de  la  Haute  Mere  Dieu,  whose  name  so 
appealed  to  me.  We  paid  our  share  of  the  cab,  and  all 
and  everything  departed,  we  on  foot.  Chalons  seems 
quite  without  character  as  one  passes  through  the  streets, 
though  I  caught  sight  of  several  old  churches  and,  alone, 
would  have  lingered  on  the  busy  bridge  that  spans  the 
Marne.  We  got  to  the  H6tel  de  la  Haute  Mere  Dieu 
and  interviewed  the  female  keeper  of  that  special  para- 
dise, who  said  she  had  nothing  for  us,  had  received  no 
telephone  message  from  the  pre  jet  at  Bar-le-Duc  or  any 
other  prefet  from  any  other  place.  Then  Mrs.  C.  P. — 
the  Verdun  day  and  the  Bar-le-Duc  nights  having  some- 
what stretched  our  nerves — began  to  get  annoyed;  the 
desk-lady  finally  asked  us,  did  we  belong  to  the  West- 
inghouse  Commission,  which  we  didn't.  We  then  be- 
took ourselves  to  the  streets.     Nothing  at  the  Hotel 

64 


MONT    FRENET 

d'Angleterre,  nothing  at  the  Hdtel-Restaurant  du 
Renard.  We  finally  asked  a  large,  beady-eyed,  deter- 
mined-looking female,  standing  at  a  door,  if  she  had 
accommodations  or  knew  of  any  one  who  had.  She 
proved  to  be  the  sage-femme  of  the  quarter  and  eyed  us 
askance. 

Just  then  appeared  a  very  comme  il  faut,  pretty  young 
woman  with  an  expression  at  once  so  charming  and  so 
modest  that  we  did  not  hesitate  to  accost  her  and  tell 
her  of  our  plight — that  it  looked  as  if  we  should  be 
passing  the  night  d  la  belle  etoile  if  some  one  didn't  do 
something  for  us.  She  hesitated,  looked  at  us,  hesi- 
tated again.  Smashed  down  on  her  head  at  a  smart 
angle  was  the  identical  hat  that  Mrs.  C.  P.  was  wearing, 
blue  with  a  twisting  of  gray,  from  Reboux.  I  think 
that  hat  crystallized  things,  for  she  ended  by  saying, 
sweetly : 

"I  have  a  room  that  I  sometimes  offer  to  friends; 
only,"  she  added,  "there  is  a  horrible  stairway  leading 
to  it." 

We  turned  our  backs  on  the  sage-femme,  doubtless 
naturally  good,  but  soured  by  the  constant  witnessing 
of  the  arrival  on  the  scene  of  apparently  superfluous 
human  beings  (I  say  "apparently,"  for  who  shall  decide 
which  souls  are  precious?),  and  followed  those  neatly 
clad,  small  feet  and  slim  ankles  up  a  winding  stairway 
that  might  have  been  of  any  epoch — except  the  nine- 
teenth or  twentieth  century,  and  found  ourselves  in  a 
charming  little  interior,  spotlessly  clean.  ilCest  a  wire 
disposition,"  she  said,  and  then  a  servant  appeared,  a 
refugee  from  Tahure,  as  we  afterward  learned,  a  gar- 
rulous refugee.  I  beat  my  breast  later  on  when  I  heard 
the  loud  bassoon,  telling  Mrs.  C.  P.  that  I  even  hated 
refugees  and  that  that  one  would  have,  if  possible,  to 
contain  her  tale  till  I  had  had  a  night's  sleep.     At  the 

65 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

moment  I  hated  her  with  all  the  unreasoning  hatred  of 
the  beneficiary  for  the  benefactor. 

Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  closets  were  opened, 
the  freshest  of  embroidered  linen  sheets,  the  largest  of 
towels,  were  got  out,  and  were  left  to  us  in  the  hand- 
somest of  ways  with  the  refugee,  the  owner  departing 
to  her  country  house.  The  refugee  managed  to  get  in 
part  of  the  story  of  her  life  and  she  brought  hot  water; 
she  was  from  Tahure  and  left  on  the  run  with  an  aged 
husband,  just  before  the  entry  of  the  enemy. 

Then  we  looked  about  the  pleasant  room.  The  first 
object  I  espied  was  a  pair  of  manly  brown  kid  gloves, 
the  next  a  blue  gas-mask  bag,  and  a  cigarette-case,  with 
a  crest,  lying  near  a  volume  of  Alfred  de  Vigny.  (Can't 
you  see  them  reading  it  together?)  And  there  was  such 
a  comfortable  chaise-longue  for  him  to  rest  on,  and  an 
expensive,  very  "comfy"  rug  and  many  cushions.  As 
the  refugee  from  Tahure  proceeded  to  make  up  the  bed 
and  sofa  she  interspersed  the  story  of  her  life  with  re- 
marks concerning  her  mistress,  like:  "Allez,  elles  ne 
sont  pas  toutes  comme  cela,  elle  a  un  coeur  a" or";  "Moi, 
qui  vous  le  dis,  elle  vCa  pas  une  mauvaise  pense'e." 

At  this  juncture  we  delicately  asked,  But  where  does 
she  live?  "Oh,  he  has  given  her  a  little  chateau  in  the 
environs."  This  was  a  convenient  town  apartment  with 
the  one  big  room  giving  on  the  Place  de  la  Republique; 
at  the  back  a  dining-room  and  little  kitchen.  Having 
removed  the  dust  of  travel,  hot  water  being  produced 
in  a  jiffy  from  the  gas-stove  on  the  kitchen  range,  we 
descended  to  take  dinner  at  one  of  the  restaurants  near 
by.  We  were  so  tired  about  this  time  that  the  decalogue 
wasn't  much  to  us,  neither  the  Law  nor  the  Prophets, 
but  be  it  remembered  of  us,  we  did  love  our  neighbor 
as  ourselves. 

When  we  came  back  after  supper  the  sofa  was  spread 

66 


MONT    FRENET 

with  large,  crisp,  spotless  linen  sheets,  the  bed  the  same, 
the  refugee  gone,  and  here  we  are  in  this  clean,  low- 
ceilinged  room  with  eighteenth-century  wood-panelings 
and  charming  door-handles  of  the  same  period.  There 
is  a  crayon  of  the  present  tenant  reflecting  her  sweet 
and  candid  expression  over  the  mantelpiece,  on  which 
are  two  Dresden-china  figures  and  a  small  white-marble 
"Young  Bacchus";  furthermore  an  etching  by  Hellu 
of  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  which  made  one  feel 
quite  poised.     In  fact,  there  is  nothing  demi  about  it. 

The  Place  de  la  Republique  is  full  of  soldiers  coming 
and  going,  and  there  are  several  ambulances  of  the 
Scottish  Ambulance  Corps  drawn  up  by  a  big  fountain 
representing  three  women  (typifying  the  Marne,  the 
Moselle,  and  the  Agne).  Over  the  soft,  warm  night  is 
borne  the  low  boom  of  cannon.  The  guard  has  just 
called  out:  "Faites  attention!  Lumiire  au  troisidme 
etage" — so  I  must  stop. 

Tuesday,  Q.30  a.m. 

Sitting  in  the  Place  de  la  Republique  on  chairs  bor- 
rowed from  a  little  lace-shop,  and  waiting  for  the  cab 
to  come  to  take  us  to  General  Goigoux,  to  whom 
Madame  Fould  had  given  us  a  letter  of  introduction. 
Just  opposite  is  the  inhospitable  Hotel  de  la  Haute 
Mere  Dieu,  and  I  have  been  telling  Mrs.  C.  P.,  who  has 
gone  to  buy  some  fruit,  of  the  story  of  Voltaire  and 
Madame  du  Chatelet  passing  through  Chalons  en  route 
from  Versailles  to  Luneville.  At  Chalons  Madame  du 
Chatelet  thought  she'd  like  to  have  a  bouillon  at  the 
Hotel  de  la  Cloche  d'Or,  where  they  stopped  to  change 
horses.  (It  still  exists  and  is  the  only  one  we  didn't 
try  last  night.)  It  was  brought  them  to  their  carriage 
by  the  aubergiste  herself,  who  had  learned  from  the  indis- 
creet postilion  the  identity  of  the  illustrious  travelers. 

67 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

When  Longchamp,  the  valet  of  Voltaire,  asks  to  pay, 
she  firmly  demands  a  louis  d'or  for  the  bouillon.  "La 
divine  Emilie"  protests,  the  woman  insists  that  at  her 
hotel  the  "price  of  an  egg,  a  bouillon,  or  a  dinner  is  a 
louis";  then  Voltaire  gets  out  and  tries  by  amiable  proc- 
esses to  explain  that  in  no  country  in  the  world  did  a 
bouillon  ever  cost  a  louis;  more  cries  and  reproaches;  a 
crowd  gathers;  Voltaire,  strong  in  his  right,  doesn't 
want  to  give  way.  Madame  du  Chatelet  points  out  the 
gathering  crowd,  now  quite  noisy.  Finally  they  pay, 
Voltaire  commending  to  all  the  devils  the  hospitable 
town  of  Chalons-sur-Marne;  they  depart  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  the  gibes  of  the  amiable  inhabitants. 
It  may  be  autre  temps,  but  not  autres  moeurs;  it's  just 
like  the  woman  at  the  desk  at  the  H6tel  de  la  Haute 
Mere  Dieu,  who  wouldn't  take  us  in,  in  any  sense,  last 
night. 

The  most  awful-looking  cab  has  just  drawn  up  in 
front  of  "our"  house,  and  a  smart  American  ambulance 
officer  is  trying  to  get  in. 

In  the  Train  en  Route  for  Paris. 

The  first  quiet  breath  I  have  drawn,  and  very  com- 
fortable it  is  to  sink  into  the  broad  seats,  out  of  the 
glare  of  the  setting  sun,  and  feel  there  is  nothing  to  in- 
spect save  the  flying  aspect  of  nature  for  the  next  three 
hours. 

The  handsome  officer  this  morning  proved  to  be  Mr. 
B.,  and  he  didn't  get  that  cab,  which,  however,  we 
promised  to  send  back  to  him  once  we  were  deposited 
at  the  general's  headquarters. 

General  Goigoux  is  most  agreeable.  When  he  asked 
us  where  we  were  lodged,  we  threw  a  stone  at  the  Hotel 
de  la  Haute  Mere  Dieu  and  told  him  of  our  Good  Sa- 
maritan.    He  gave  a  grin,  if  generals  are  supposed  to 

68 


MONT    FRENET 

grin,  when  we  said  that  we  had  not  disturbed  her  to  any 
great  extent,  as  she  had,  in  addition,  a  country  place 
where  she  really  lived.  We  then  told  him  of  our  meet- 
ing with  Miss  N.  and  Miss  M.,  who  had  asked  us  to 
investigate  the  canteen  prospects  on  our  way  back  to 
Paris.  The  installing  of  one  has  long  been  the  idea  of 
General  Goigoux,  who  loves  his  poilus,  and  he  immedi- 
ately rang  the  bell  on  his  table — among  his  books  was  a 
German  Baedeker  of  eastern  France — and  in  a  moment 
a  captain  with  a  sad  face  and  a  black  band  on  his  arm 
appeared,  and  we  departed  in  a  huge  military  auto  to 
the  station  to  investigate  the  great  railway  shed  that 
the  general  has  requisitioned  for  canteen  purposes. 

Going  through  the  streets,  we  were  held  up  for  a 
moment  by  a  detachment  of  prisoners  in  various  uni- 
forms and  from  various  regiments,  but  all  with  P.  G. 
(prisonnier  de  guerre)  marked  in  large  letters  on  their 
backs.  A  tall,  upstanding  set  with  ringing  tread, 
not  at  all  unhappy-looking,  despite  a  something  set 
about  their  expression,  seemingly  in  very  good  physical 
condition. 

Statues  of  the  top-hatted,  frock-coated  political  men 
of  nineteenth-century  France  have  banalized  the  public 
places  of  every  town  in  the  doux  pays.  They  simply 
can't  compete  with  the  saints  and  kings  and  warriors  of 
the  artistic  periods — it's  too  bad  they  have  tried. 

At  12.30  we  got  back  to  our  pleasant  quarters,  to 
find  our  hostess  there,  in  a  very  smart  dark-blue  serge 
dress  from  Jeanne  Halle.  In  addition  to  the  chateau, 
the  shop  down-stairs,  called  "Aux  Allies,"  where  all 
sorts  of  edible  delicacies  are  sold,  belongs  to  her  together 
with  a  tall  and  beautiful  red-haired  Frenchwoman. 
This  is  her  up-stairs  resting-place  during  the  day.  We 
sank  on  bed  and  sofa,  exhausted  by  the  heat,  the  visit 
to  the  station  to  inspect  the  canteen  facilities,  which 
6  69 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

seemed  most  promising,  visits  to  two  churches,  and 
luncheon  in  the  crowded  Restaurant  du  Renard.  In  the 
church  of  St.-Alpin  white-bloused  experts  were  busy 
removing  the  beautiful  sixteenth-century  stained-glass 
windows.  "If  'twere  done,  'twere  well  'twere  done 
quickly."  That  continued  booming  of  guns  made  one 
realize  at  once  their  fragility  and  their  beauty. 

Shortly  after,  a  handsome  young  officer  came  in,  a 
gentleman,  and  speaking  beautiful  English.  It  wasn't 
'"he,"  however,  but  a  friend  of  his,  and  we  did  a  little 
"society"  talk — the  weather,  the  necessity  of  learning 
the  languages  young,  the  theater,  that  Rejane  was  get- 
ting old,  and  "L*  Elevation"  was  bad  for  the  morals, 
and  fashions,  if  the  skirts  could  get  shorter — but  noth- 
ing of  the  war. 

At  two  o'clock  another  military  auto  was  announced, 
which  the  general  had  sent  with  a  doctor  to  take  us  to 
Mont  Frenet,  four  kilometers  from  Suippes  and  six 
from  the  German  lines.  The  young  officer  departed; 
we  veiled  and  gloved  ourselves  and  descended,  and  got 
into  the  motor,  where  we  found  a  large,  dark,  military 
man  inclining  to  embonpoint,  who  thought  he  was  good- 
looking,  and  started  out.  The  first  thing  we  met  as  we 
got  out  of  town  on  the  dusty,  blazing  highroad  was  a 
little  funeral  cortege,  preceded  by  a  priest.  The  body 
of  the  soldier  was  draped  in  the  tricolor,  and  following 
to  his  last  rest,  close  behind,  was  his  camarade,  with  head 
bared.  He  had  doubtless  expired  in  the  big  hospital 
near  by,  one  of  those  lonely  hospital  deaths  that  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  have  suffered  before  transfiguration. 

We  were  in  the  great  plain  of  the  Champagne  Pouil- 
leuse  that  leads  to  Suippes,  Sainte-Menehould,  and 
stretches  out  to  Reims — a  plain  with  great,  white, 
chalky  scars  of  quarries,  interspersed  with  fields  and 
dark  patches  of  pine  woods.     I  asked  the  doctor  about 

70 


MONT    FRENET 

the  site  of  the  ancient  camp  of  Attila  and  the  battle 
of  the  Catalonian  fields,  but  his  knowledge  of  the  matter 
was  vague  and  his  interest  perfunctory.  I  thought 
afterward  he  might  have  had  a  more  personal  afternoon 
planned  than  that  of  taking  two  objective-minded  ladies 
to  Mont  Frenet.  There  was  once  a  great  Roman  road 
from  Bar-le-Duc  to  Reims,  and  all  about  are  little 
churches  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  mostly 
touched  up  in  the  eighteenth. 

After  three-quarters  of  an  hour  we  found  ourselves 
nearing  what  might  have  been  a  modern  mining  settle- 
ment. It  is  the  great  front  hospital  of  Mont  Frenet. 
A  model  establishment  organized  and  conducted  by  a 
man  of  heart  and  brain,  Doctor  Poutrain.  Young, 
elance,  alert,  he  took  us  the  rounds  of  his  little  world, 
from  the  door  where  the  ambulances  deposit  their 
wounded,  their  dying,  and  oft  their  dead,  where  they 
are  sorted  out,  through  the  numberless  wards,  even  to 
the  model  wash-houses  and  the  places  where  the  gar- 
ments of  those  brought  in  are  scientifically  separated 
from  their  inevitable  and  deadly  live  stock. 

As  we  passed  through  one  of  the  wards,  I  saw  the 
doctor's  eye  change,  and,  following  it,  I  perceived,  as 
he  quickly  went  to  the  bedside,  a  face  with  the  death 
look  already  on  it;  and  in  a  moment,  with  a  slight  sigh, 
a  soul  had  breathed  itself  out — en  route  to  the  heaven 
of  those  who  die  pro  patria. 

And  I  thought  in  great  awe,  "All  I  know  or  ever 
will  know  of  that  human  being  is  his  supreme  hour." 
And  so  fortuitous,  so  sudden  was  it  all  that  I  had  not 
even  time  to  breathe  a  word  of  prayer,  nor  even  to 
reach  out  for  his  hand.  And  I,  come  from  so  far,  so 
unrelated  to  him,  was  thus  the  destined  witness  of  his 
passing.     I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  mind. 

Doctor  Poutrain  loves  his  broken  men,  and  he  said, 

7i 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

"I  want  no  man  who  has  been  severely  wounded  or 
mutilated  to  leave  my  hospital  without  his  decoration." 
He  had  tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  stood  by  a  bed  where  a 
bright-eyed,  thin-faced  boy  was  lying  with  a  hip  fract- 
ure. "He  brought  a  comrade  in,  under  fire,  who  was 
shot  off  his  back  as  he  was  carrying  him  in." 

In  one  of  the  beds  an  aviator  was  lying,  brought  in 
three  days  before;  the  eyes,  the  mouth,  the  whole  face 
had  still  the  peculiar  look  of  strain.  Indeed,  three  faces 
stand  out  in  one's  mind — the  captivity  face,  the  hard, 
shining  face  and  eyes  of  unwounded  men  just  from  the 
combat,  and  the  faces  of  wounded  aviators.  About 
this  time  I  noticed  the  gloomy  look  deepening  on  the 
face  of  our  accompanying  Esculapius,  and  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  me  "he  is  one  of  those  who  support  with 
difficulty  the  praises  of  another."  For  we  had  been 
very  explicit  in  praise  of  Doctor  Pou train's  wonderful 
installation. 

It  was  a  slack  day,  and  according  to  the  record  in  the 
antechamber  there  had  only  been  517  brought  in  that 
day. 

We  have  tea  with  the  directrice  of  the  gardes-malades 
(ten  or  twelve  women  only),  a  friend  of  Madame  Fould's. 
As  we  sat  there  talking  I  discovered  that  the  eager 
medecin-chef  had  had,  before  the  war,  as  hobby,  arche- 
ology and  ethnology,  especially  of  the  prehistoric  races 
of  Mexico;  that  he  also  possessed  one  of  the  few  Aztec 
codices  existing — all  of  which  we  discussed  to  the  sound 
of  the  German  guns  and  the  whirring  of  their  airplanes. 

We  finally  made  our  adieux,  came  home  over  the  hot, 
unspeakably  dusty  road  of  the  Champagne  Pouilleuse, 
unreasonably  disappointed  that  nobody  would  give  us 
permission  to  make  a  little  detour  by  Suippes,  then 
under  fire.  We  got  back  to  our  headquarters,  packed 
our  belongings,  and  diffidently  brought  up  the  subject 

72 


MONT    FRENET 

of  remuneration,  which  the  belle  chdtelaine  firmly  re- 
fused. I  was  traveling  light,  without  a  single  thing 
approaching  the  superfluous,  but  Mrs.  P.  had  a  break- 
fast-cap and  her  tortoise-shell  toilet  things  and  trees 
for  her  shoes,  and  she  also  found  among  her  be- 
longings a  lovely  amber  box,  which  she  presented  in 
token  of  our  gratitude.  We  could  make  the  garrulous 
refugee  from  Tahure  not  only  happy,  but  speechless, 
which  was  more  to  the  point;  and  here  we  are,  looking 
out  on  a  darkening  world,  and  there  are  soldiers  bathing 
in  the  river,  near  stacked  guns,  and  everywhere  little 
detachments  are  marching  down  dim  roads,  and  there 
are  the  eternal  troop-  and  equipment-trains  going  to 
the  front — and  I  feel  an  immense  regret  at  leaving  it 

ail.  »  •  • 

Paris. 

As  we  were  sitting  in  the  dining-car,  idly  wondering 
how  on  earth  we  were  going  to  get  from  the  station  to 
our  respective  abodes  once  the  train  had  deposited  us 
at  the  Gare  de  l'Est,  or  planning  to  spend  the  night 
there,  the  Marquis  de  M.  passed  through  the  car.  His 
motor  was  to  meet  him,  and  he  gallantly  offered  transit, 
that  can  be  above  rubies  and  pearls  par  le  temps  qui 
court. 

When  we  got  to  Paris  at  10.30  we  saw  in  the  dim 
light,  as  we  stepped  into  the  big  motor,  voyagers  de- 
parting with  luggage  on  their  backs,  or,  preparing  to 
await  the  dawn,  sitting  on  it.  We  got  into  the  motor 
with  Comte  de  ,  the  Marquis  himself  sitting  out- 
side, "for  the  air,"  as  he  said,  and  also  because  there 
was  no  more  room  inside. 

As  we  rolled  along  through  the  dimly  lighted  streets, 
the  air  dense  and  hot,  a  terrific  hail-  and  thunder-storm 
suddenly  deluged  the  town,  and  especially  the  generous 
Marquis  outside,  well  punished  (as  usual)  for  his  kind 

73 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

act.  When,  slipping  and  skidding,  we  finally  pulled 
up  at  my  hotel,  a  very  wet  gentleman,  but  remember- 
ing his  manners,  said,  "An  plaisir  de  vous  revoir,  madame" 
(He  must  really  have  wished  me  to  all  the  devils,  where 
he  would  never  meet  me  a  second  time,  hoping  it  was 
a  last  as  well  as  a  first  meeting.)  I  had  to  laugh,  also 
he,  the  pleasure  was  so  evidently  doubtful.  It  ended 
by  his  betaking  his  soaking  person  into  the  auto,  and  I 
came  up-stairs  to  find  my  lamps  trimmed  and  burning 
and  my  beloved  mother  awaiting  me  to  hear  "all  about 
it." 

So  may  one  go  to  the  front  and  return.  .  .  . 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  I 


BY    THE    MARNE 


Gare  de  l'Est,  Wednesday,  July  25th. 

NO,   it  isn't  possible,  even  for  one  whose  business  is 
not  that  of  stopping  bullets,  to  go  toward  the  com- 
bat a  second  time  without  a  thrill. 

Few  soldiers  in  the  station;  they  are  mostly  at  the 
front,  at  Craonne  and  Le  Chemin  des  Dames  and  other 
sacrificial  places,  and  in  a  week  or  two  the  empty  beds 
in  the  hospitals  will  be  full  again.  Some  officers  are 
hastening  back  from  their  permissions  with  pasteboard 
boxes  and  other  unwar-like  accoutrements.  One  is  sit- 
ting by  me,  a  straight-featured  young  man  with  dark- 
ringed  eyes,  his  Croix  de  Guerre  and  jourragere,1  reading 
Brin  de  Lilas.  In  forty-eight  hours  he  may  be  dead. 
Another  officer  is  reading  Cozur  d'Orpheline,  and  Le  Pays. 

Miss  N.,  with  something  of  serene  yet  brooding  in 
her  being,  plus  a  sense  of  humor,  arrives  with  a  tele- 
graphic pass  from  army  headquarters  at  Chalons,  which 
may  or  may  not  "pass"  the  train  conductor. 

Later. 

Chelles,  where  the  arts  of  peace  in  the  form  of  a  ver- 
micelli-factory testify  to  the  arts  of  war  by  having  every 
pane  of  glass  broken;  and  once  there  was  a  celebrated 
abbey   at   Chelles   which   was  destroyed,   with   a   tidy 

1  Regimental  decoration  in  the  form  of  a  cord  worn  over  the  left 
shoulder,  passing  under  the  arm. 

77 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

amount  of  other  things  beautiful,  at  the  time  of  the 
French  Revolution. 

Farther  along  much  thinning  out  of  the  woods,  the 
beautiful  warmth-giving,  shade-giving  forests  of  France. 
In  one  place  there  is  a  planting  of  young,  slender  trees, 
and  I  thought  on  those  other  children  of  France  who 
must  grow  to  manhood,  remake  her  soul,  transmit  her 
immortality.  The  first  harvest  is  stacked  and  yellow, 
and  nature  is  densely,  deeply  green  where  it  had  been 
pale  and  expectant.  Even  the  Marne,  which  we  caught 
up  here,  has  a  deeper  color  than  in  June,  as  it  reflects 
the  lush  green. 

Meaux,  with  its  cathedral  rising  from  the  center  of 
the  town,  untouched  except  by  time.  Meaux  has  now 
come  to  be  a  sort  of  joke  ("de  deux  maux  choisir  le 
moindre")  which  few  can  resist — I've  even  heard  it  at 
the  Theatre  Francais — and  it's  supposed  to  be  the  heart's 
desire  of  the  embusque",  far  enough  from  the  front  not 
to  get  hurt,  and  far  enough  from  Paris  to  be  out  of 
sight. 

Chateau  Thierry,  with  its  first  vintage  of  white  grapes, 
and  I  bethought  me  how  the  whole  of  France  is  one 
vast  wine-press — "He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage 
where  the  grapes  of  wrath  are  stored." 

Epernay,  with  its  peculiar  church  tower.  The  great 
building  of  the  champagne  Mercier  firm  near  the  station 
has  every  window-pane  broken,  and  part  of  it  is  serving 
as  a  Red  Cross  station.  The  wave  of  invasion  pressed 
hard  through  Epernay  that  August  of  19 14. 

In  the  dining-car  we  sat  at  a  table  with  two  officers — 
an  airman,  tall,  deep-eyed,  some  sort  of  tic  nerveux  dis- 
turbing his  face,  with  the  Grand'  Croix  de  la  Legion 
d'Honneur  among  other  decorations;  and  a  captain  of 
infantry,  who  had  been  months  at  Arras,  and  at  Verdun 
the  terrible  March  of  191 6. 

78 


BY   THE    MARNE 

About  the  time  that  the  cross-eyed  waiter  (it  was 
easy,  poor  soul,  to  see  why  he  wasn't  wanted  in  the 
trenches)  threw  the  last  set  of  plates  with  a  deafening 
crash  down  the  line  of  diners  (the  captain  of  infantry 
said  it  was  just  like  the  first-line  trenches),  the  airman, 
whose  nerves  couldn't  stand  it,  pursued,  rather 
irritably : 

"You  don't  even  read  the  communiques  any  more,  I 
wager.     Oh,  les  civils!" 

"I  can't  truthfully  say  I  do,  always,"  I  answered, 
feeling  called  on  to  defend  the  sacris  civils.  "After  three 
years  of  it  we  are  fatigued  and  bewildered  by  the  spec- 
tacularness  of  it,  the  great,  dazzling,  hideous  mass  of  it, 
and  you  who  perish  on  the  battle-field  but  perform  an 
act  that  all  must  some  day  perform,  only  different  in 
that  it  is  far  better  done — dulce  et  decorum — but,  after  all, 
the  same  act  that  we  must  perform  against  our  will,  at 
the  mercy  of  some  accidental  combination.  It's  the 
same  outcome,  'and  one's  a  long  time  dead.' " 

After  a  pause  and  a  deep  look,  perhaps  it  is  the  look 
men  have  when  alone  in  the  secular  spaces,  he  answered : 

"Choisir  et  aimer  sa  mort,  c'est  un  peu  comme  choisir 
sa  bien-aime'e,"  and  suddenly  a  flash  illuminated  my 
soul,  showing  me  something  of  the  duke  as  well  as  the 
decorum  of  dying  for  country. 

And  then  we  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  there 
came  into  my  mind  a  completely  commonplace  event 
that  caught  my  attention  in  the  first  wonderment  and 
horror  of  the  world  war.  Accompanied  by  her  daughter, 
an  elderly  woman,  one  August  evening  of  1914,  took 
the  Fifth  Avenue  motor-bus  to  get  some  fresh  air,  and 
they  placed  themselves  on  top.  At  that  epoch,  instead 
of  going  straight  up  the  Avenue,  which  was  being  repaved 
around  about  Thirty-fifth  Street,  the  omnibus  took  a 
turn  into   Madison  Avenue  and  reappeared   again   at 

79 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

the  north  side  of  Altman's.  Now  the  roof  of  the  porte- 
cochere  of  Altman's  has  a  motif  of  bronzework.  The 
omnibus  lurched  just  at  this  point;  the  head  and  hair 
of  the  old  lady  were  caught  in  it;  she  was  lifted  up  from 
the  top  of  the  omnibus,  remained  suspended  in  air  for 
an  instant  of  time,  then  dropped  to  the  pavement, 
where  she  breathed  out  her  soul.  Doubtless  there 
are  those  who  will  understand  why  this  completely 
unimportant  matter  has  remained  in  my  mind — even 
why  I  thought  of  it  at  that  moment. 

Chalons-sur-Marne, 
36  rue  du  Port  de  Marne. 

An  i860  house  requisitioned  by  the  military  authori- 
ties for  the  Dames  de  la  Cantine. 

6.30  p.m. 

Sitting  in  a  little  glass-inclosed  veranda  even  with 
the  ground.  The  side  against  the  house,  in  between 
the  doors  and  windows,  is  painted  in  a  crisscross  pat- 
tern of  dark  green  against  light  green,  and  the  wood- 
work is  that  favorite  but  uninspiring  shallow  brown; 
a  large,  empty,  double-decker  cage  for  birds  is  in  a 
corner.  The  veranda  leads  into  two  low-ceilinged  rooms 
with  parquet  flooring  and  little  squares  of  Brussels  car- 
pet. In  the  first  is  a  writing-table,  some  arm-chairs, 
and  a  horsehair  sofa  is  across  a  corner;  brown  wall- 
paper ornamented  with  the  inevitable  oil-paintings  of 
"near"  Corots,  and  "farther"  Guido  Renis — everything 
distinctly  early  Victorian,  and  something  soothing  in  its 
atmosphere  after  three  lustrums  of  art  nouveau.  After 
all  we've  been  through  in  art  lately,  early  Victorian 
isn't  as  bad  as  we  once  thought. 

I  looked  for  a  moment  into  the  walnut  bookcase  and 
found  bound  volumes  of  La  Semaine  des  Families,  1850- 
60;    Le  Mus6e    des    Families  of    the    same    dates:    Le 

80 


BY    THE    MARNE 

Magasin  d1  Education,  of  the  eighties;  and  the  curious 
part  is  that  here  beside  the  Marne  it  doesn't  seem  of 
any  special  country,  but  of  a  special  period. 

The  kitchen  leads  out  of  the  dining-room  (which 
latter  is  the  spiritual  twin  of  the  salon),  and  has  an 
old,  unused  fireplace  with  a  high  masonried  shelf  above 
it  and  a  beautiful  ancient  fireback  with  coat  of  arms. 
Near  the  high  window  is  a  little  range  and  the  inevi- 
table gas-stove.  I  put  my  valise  in  the  sitting-room 
and  went  out  into  the  old  garden,  untouched  since  the 
winter's  sleep  and  the  spring's  awakening.  It  looks 
out  on  the  road;  beyond  is  a  raised  walk  along  the 
river,  and  across  the  stream,  just  opposite,  is  the  station 
and  the  evacuation  hospital. 

But  I  was  feeling  uneasy  as  I  looked  about,  for  I  was 
separated  from  my  carnet  rouge,1  which  has  been  un- 
necessarily reft  from  me  by  a  too-zealous  station  in- 
dividual. Miss  Mitchell  had  met  us,  smiling  and 
waving,  which  ought  to  have  been  a  patent  of  respec- 
tability, from  the  other  side  of  a  bayonet,  the  side  we 
wanted  to  be  on;  but  the  man  had  a  dullish  eye  and 
didn't  see  that  we  were  birds  of  a  feather,  and,  any- 
way, had  just  been  put  in  authority  and  was  enjoying 
his  full  powers,  after  the  usual  manner  of  the  unaccus- 
tomed. 

So  I  departed,  and  got  sopping  wet  in  my  only  suit 
(am  traveling  lighter  even  than  the  first  time),  and  my 
garments  were  furthermore  ravaged  by  falling  pollen 
from  a  linden-tree  under  which  I  had  confidingly  stood 
during  the  downpour.  I  was  a  sight,  but  I  had  to  get 
that  carnet  rouge.  Any  one  who  has  been  in  la  zone  des 
armies  and  has  been  separated  from  it  will  understand 
the  orphaned  and  anxious  feeling  that  possessed  me. 

1  The  sau f -conduits  for  the  army  zones  are  in  the  form  of  little,  red, 
paper-bound  books. 

81 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

Later. 

A  pale  brightening  of  the  western  sky  after  the 
heavy  rain.  Two  avions  de  chasse  passing  swiftly  to 
the  northeast.  I  wandered  out  of  the  garden,  past  some 
modern  houses  (this  part  of  Chalons,  for  some  reason, 
is  called  Madagascar),  taking  the  little  raised  earth- 
walk  by  the  Marne.  The  river,  always  slow-flowing, 
has  an  almost  imperceptible  movement  in  front  of  our 
house,  and  there  are  many  grasses  and  reeds ;  the  banks 
are  weedy  and  little  green  boats  are  made  fast  to  them, 
and  nature  is  a  bit  motley  and  untidy.  A  soldier  is 
fishing  on  the  opposite  side  near  the  station.  An  officer 
and  a  black-robed  woman  pass.  Farther  down,  the 
banks  are  thickly  wooded  and  the  trees  glisten  after  the 
rain ;  even  the  great  railway  station  is  a-shine,  where  tens 
of  thousands  of  men  pass  daily,  together  with  millions 
of  francs  of  war  material,  and  it  all  looks  like  some  not 
very  sharp  wood-cut  of  the  sixties  —  the  kind  you 
wouldn't  buy  if  you  were  looking  over  a  lot;  but,  some- 
how, lived  in,  it  is  charming.  Then  I  found  myself  on 
a  path  by  the  river,  with  a  lush  border  of  trees,  poplar, 
willow,  white  birch,  ash,  hawthorn,  and  clematis-twined, 
wild-grape-vined  bushes.  On  the  other  side  were  ripe 
wheat-fields.  Near  a  sycamore  a  man  and  a  woman 
were  locked  in  an  embrace,  whether  of  greeting  or  fare- 
well I  know  not.  Neither  was  very  young — this  much 
I  saw  before  I  turned  my  eyes  and  went  on;  but  when 
I  passed  there  again  they  were  as  before,  their  eyes 
still  closed;  and  I  suddenly  knew  them  for  true  lovers, 
who  count  not  moments,  but  were  lost  in  some  infinity; 
and  for  all  I  know  they  may  be  there  yet,  and  if  not 
they,  then  others,  for  the  spaces  of  love  are  never  empty. 
To  some  it  may  be  nonsense  that  I  am  talking,  but  there 
are  those  who  will  know.     All  the  while  there  was  a  dull 

boom  of  cannon,  and  other  men  who  could  love  women 

82 


BY    THE    MARNE 

were  giving  up  their  lives;  and  I  seemed  to  understand 
little  or  nothing,  but  did  not  need  to  understand,  for  I 
had  a  full  heart,  which  is  better  than  a  full  brain.  And 
I  cried,  as  I  walked  back,  "Dornine  Deus,  Rex  Celestis, 
Pater  omnipotens"  and  left  it  all — the  soft  love  and 
the  hard  death  —  where  it  belongs.  And  I  was  glad 
to  have  walked  for  a  few  moments  alone  by  the  green 
Marne. 

When  I  got  back  I  found  Joseph  of  the  71st  Chasseurs 
a  pied  sitting  with  Miss  N.  Joseph  thinks  we  are  friends; 
he  knows  we  are  friends,  so  different  from  "world's" 
people,  who  are  suspicious  and  think  nobody  loves 
them,  or  fatuous  and  think  everybody  does. 

We  sat  in  the  i860  dining-room.  There  is  a  pressed  - 
bronze  clock  on  the  mantelpiece,  representing  a  mild  and 
smiling  Turk  with  a  drawn  sword — and  there  is  a  side- 
board you  could  find  in  Barnesville,  Maryland,  or 
Squedunk  (I  forget  where  Squedunk  is),  and  the  ex- 
tremely "distant"  Guido  Renis  decorate  the  brown 
walls,  without,  however,  enlivening  them. 

And  this  is  Joseph's  story — Joseph  of  the  grateful 
heart,  Joseph  with  two  years  and  a  half  of  service, 
Joseph  who  won't  be  twenty  till  December,  Joseph  with 
his  young,  round  face  and  flat  nose,  dark  under  his 
pleasant  eyes,  and  a  bit  hollow  under  his  cheek-bones, 
and  with  decorations  on  his  chest: 

"I  never  knew  my  parents;  the  Fathers  brought  me 
up.  I  have  had  only  good  from  them,  and  when  they 
were  chasses  I  was  taken  with  them  to  Pisa.  I  was 
going  to  continue  my  studies,  mais  la  guerre,  que  voulez- 
vousf  They  call  me  'le  gosse,'  I  was  the  youngest  in 
the  regiment.  Now  I  am  alone  in  the  world  since  my 
brothers  were  killed,  one  at  Verdun  three  weeks  ago, 
the  other  last  year  on  the  Somme.  I  miss  the  letters," 
he  added,  simply. 

83 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

"But,  Joseph,  tell  us  how  you  got  your  Croix  de 
Guerre." 

"Oh,  I  only  happened  to  save  the  life  of  my  captain 
at  Verdun.  We  were  making  a  reconnaissance,  and  he 
fell  with  a  ball  in  the  hip.  I  started  to  bring  him  in, 
with  a  comrade  who  was  hit  by  a  piece  of  shrapnel  in 
the  head  and  killed  instantly.  I  caught  'mine'  in  the 
arm,  but  I  was  still  able  to  drag  my  captain  in  by  his 
feet.  It  was  quite  simple,  and  since  then  he  is  very 
good  to  me." 

Joseph  is  en  perm,  his  regiment  is  at  Reims,  but  he 
spits  blood  and  his  voice  is  hoarse — he  was  gassed  a 
few  weeks  ago. 

"It  smelt  of  violets,"  he  said,  "and  we  didn't  know 
that  anything  was  the  matter  till  an  officer  rushed  tow- 
ard us.  Eight  of  us  never  got  up.  I'll  never  speak 
clearer  than  this," 

Joseph  stayed  to  supper  with  us — a  supper  of  soupe 
a  I'oseille,  scrambled  eggs,  and  salad,  but  the  brown, 
dull,  little  room  gradually  seemed  to  fill  with  a  sifted 
glory,  and  we  left  our  meal  and  went  out  to  find  the 
whole  world  dipped  in  transparent  pink,  and  the  great 
Light  of  Day  about  to  disappear,  a  reddish  ball,  in  a 
mass  of  color  of  an  intenser  hue.  The  delicate  wil- 
lows were  like  silver  candelabra  reflected  in  the  Marne, 
which  now  was  a  satiny  pink.  The  wheat-fields  were 
seas  of  burnished  gold. 

Over  all  a  terrific  boom  of  cannon  was  borne  on  the 
damp  evening  air.  It  seemed  impossible  to  do  other 
than  walk  magnetically  on  and  on  toward  the  dreadful 
sound,  out  of  that  world  of  surpassing  beauty  toward 
those  supreme  agonies,  toward  Mourmelon  and  Reims, 
where  men  were  laying  down  their  lives,  even  as  we  three 
women  walked  the  fields  at  the  sunset  hour.  I  remem- 
bered suddenly  a  picture  known  and  loved  years  ago — ■ 

84 


BY   THE    MARNE 

a  woman  kneeling  by  such  a  river-bank,  her  hair  falling, 
her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  called  "Hymnus  an  die 
Schonheit,"  but  over  the  pink-and-silver  beauty  of  my 
sunset  world  I  heard  the  deep  and  dreadful  tones  of 
their  cannon,  and  the  answer  of  the  75's,  which  Joseph 
likened  to  the  miaulemcnt  d'un  chat — and  all  the  world 
seemed  askew,  and  I  looked  through  tears  at  a  golden 
half-moon  that  was  rising  in  the  pink  to  add  an  un- 
bearable beauty  to  it  all. 

In  my  room,  10.30  p.m. 
The  cannon  still  booming. 

My  room  also  has  a  dark-brown  paper  with  great 
white  flowers  on  it— some  cross  between  peonies  and 
dahlias,  if  such  union  is  possible — and  heavy  mahogany 
furniture;  a  few  books  which  I  immediately  inves- 
tigated, on  a  gimp  and  tasseled  trimmed  shelf,  for  a  clue 
to  the  one-time  dwellers.  Among  them  were  two  by 
Victor  Tissot,  Le  Pays  des  Milliards  and  Les  Prus- 
siens  en  Allemagne;  the  dates  were  1873  and  1875, 
and  they  told  of  that  other  war;  and  I  looked  at  Ger- 
many through  the  eyes  of  forty  years  ago  as  I  turned 
the  pages  of  Le  Pays  des  Milliards,  listening  to  the 
191 7  guns.  History  was  not  only  repeating  itself,  but 
tripping  itself  up! 

Joseph  is  sleeping  in  the  garden  in  the  steamer-chair. 
I  hear  his  gas-cough,  a  cross  between  a  croupy  cough 
and  a  whooping-cough.  We  wanted  him  to  sleep  in- 
side, but  he  said  "J'etoujje,"  and  took  the  steamer-chair 
out  under  the  spreading  chestnut-tree,  and  sleeps  the 
sleep  of  youth,  even  though  weary  and  gassed. 

Thursday,  26th  July,  1.30  p.m. 

Sitting  in  the  garden,  after  lunch,  where  we  have  had 
coffee  under  the  spreading  chestnut,   ready   to  go   to 
Bar-le-Duc.     Avions  are  whirring  in  the  perfect  blue, 
7  85 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

and  we  plainly  hear  the  cannon.  We  are  to  take  night 
shift  at  the  little  Foyer  des  Allies.  When  I  say  that  we 
carry  nothing  with  us,  not  more  than  if  we  were  going 
to  take  a  stroll  about  town,  one  sees  that  the  journey 
will  be  fairly  elemental. 

Many  white  butterflies  with  an  unerring  instinct  for 
beauty  are  flying  in  and  out  of  the  little  white  ash-tree. 
And  in  spite  of  the  boom  of  cannon  there  straightway 
came  to  me  a  dear  and  fugitive  realization  that  beauty 
is  the  first  thing  sought  by  instinct,  its  earliest  and  its 
last  love,  its  imperishable  means  and  its  end.  And  how 
every  other  seeking  of  instinct  comes  after  perpetua- 
tion, conservation,  survival  of  the  strong,  and  how  it 
accompanies  and  pushes  the  soul  toward  its  trans- 
figuration. 

Suddenly,  under  the  rustling  chestnut,  all  about  me 
the  murmur  of  the  gently  stirring  garden,  I  found  I 
was  mad  for  beauty,  and  some  liquid,  long,  unrepeated 
lines  came  to  me,  I  know  not  why : 

E  il  pino 

ha  un  suono,  e  il  mirto 

Altro  suono,  e  il  ginepro 

Allro  ancora,  stromenti 

diver  si 

Sotto  innumerevoli  dila. 

Che  Vanima  schiude 

novella, 

Sn  la  favola  bella 

Che  ieri 

M'ilhtsc,  the  oggi  fillude, 

O  Ermione.1 

When  you're  not  carrying  anything  with  you  except 
your  money  and  your  safe-conduct,  you  can  dream  till 
it's  time  to  take  the  train. 

l"La  Pioggia  nel  Pinclo."— D'Annunzio. 
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CHAPTER   II 

THE    CANTEEN    AT    BAR-LE-DUC 

Epitaphe 

Binis  ceux  qui  sont  morts  simplement:    en  vidimes, 
Et  n'ayant  de  la  guerre  eprouve  que  Vhorreur. 
Benis  ceux  qui  sont  morts  sans  nourrir  en  leur  coeur 
La  haine  et  tons  ses  maux,  la  gloire  et  tous  ses  crimes. 

Benis  ceux  qui  sont  morts  comme  Us  avaient  vecu: 
Assidus  noblement  a  de  modestes  laches. 
Benis  ceux  qui,  n'etant  ni  tres  braves,  ni  laches, 
N'ont  su  que  rSsigner  leur  corps  pauvre  et  vaincu. 

Benis  ceux  qui  sont  morts  pour  servir  et  defendre 
Des  honneurs  et  des  Mens  dont  Us  n'ont  point  leur  part. 
Benis  ceux  qui  se  sont  donnes  sans  rien  attendre 
De  leur  posterite,  de  I'histoire  ou  de  Vart. 

Benis  ceux  qui,  luttant  seulement  pour  la  vie, 
Ont  ignore  les  lois  qui  reposent  sur  eux, 
Mais  compris  en  mourant  qu'ils  sont  les  malheureux 
En  qui  depuis  toujours  Jesus  se  sacrifie. 

Benis,  Us  le  sont  tous,  et  saints  entre  les  morts, 
Ceux  qu'on  ne  pleure  guere  et  que  nul  tie  renomme: 
Car,  devant-les  heros,  Us  ne  sont  rien  que  I' Homme; 
Car,  parmi  tant  de  gloire,  Us  fondent  le  retnords; 

Car  leur  don  si  naif,  ce  don  de  tout  leur  itre, 
Mile  aux  vertus  du  sol  les  grdces  d'un  sang  pur, 
Pour  composer,  avec  tout  Vor  du   ble  futur, 
Les  moissons  d'un  esprit  dont  V Amour  sera  maitre. 

Georges  Pioch. 

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MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

Chalons,  27th  July. 

Half  past  four.  Half  an  hour  ago,  alerte,  sirdnes. 
We  hastily  arose  from  resting,  and  have  just  come  up 
from  a  really  charming  cellar,  with  nice  vaulting,  evi- 
dently much  older  than  the  house  itself. 

Returned  from  Bar-le-Duc  this  morning  rather  sketchy 
in  my  mind,  blurred  with  fatigue,  in  a  compartment  with 
five  silent,  dead-tired  officers.  It's  a  great  human 
document,  night  shift  in  a  canteen.  From  ten  o'clock 
till  six  I  watched  the  poilus  fill  the  Foyer  des  Allies,  in 
and  out,  in  and  out.  From  time  to  time  the  voice  of 
the  station-master  called  out  some  fateful  destination. 
I  was  thankful  for  any  momentary  slackening  of  the 
rush,  so  that  when  one  gives  coffee,  chocolate,  or  bouil- 
lon one  can  also  give  a  word,  the  precious  word,  where 
all  is  so  anonymous.  Between  three  and  four  there  was 
a  lessening,  and  a  short,  haggard,  deep-eyed,  scraggy  - 
mustached  man  of  forty-six,  leaning  on  the  counter, 
said  to  me,  "I  am  father  of  five,"  and,  showing  his 
blue  trousers  tucked  in  his  boots,  added,  "I  am  of  the 
attacking  troops."  He  then  shifted  his  accoutrement 
and  dug  out  from  his  person  the  photographs  of  the 
five  children  and  his  epouse,  and  I  think  more  and  more, 
"it  is  for  the  young  to  fight."  I  can't  bear  the  look  on 
the  faces  of  the  middle-aged  going  up  to  battle. 

The  poilu  trying  to  find  his  purse  or  the  photographs 
of  his  family,  among  everything  else  in  the  world  that 
he  carries  on  his  person,  pressed  tightly  against  other 
men  carrying  the  same,  feels  doubtless  the  way  a  sardine 
trying  to  turn  over  would  feel! 

The  next  with  whom  I  spoke  was  a  gaillard  with  a 
glancing  blue  eye,  reddish  mustache  and  high  color,  from 
Barcelona,  of  French  parents,  and  he  insisted  on  speak- 
ing Spanish  with  me.     His  brother  is  professor  at  Saint- 

Nazaire. 

88 


THE   CANTEEN    AT    BAR-LE-DUC 

"Every  time  he  writes  me  it  is  about  Mr.  Lloyd  George 
instead  of  about  the  family." 

This  is  a  delicate  tribute  to  my  supposed  English 
nationality. 

"Do  you  think  we  are  going  to  win,  senorita?" 

"Of  course,"  I  answer,  "with  the  help  of  God.  Dios 
y  victoria"  I  add,  piously. 

But  as  he  tosses  off  his  coffee  he  says,  with  a  gleam, 
"Victoria  y  Dios,"  and  then  gives  way  to  a  comrade 
who  was  at  Craonne  in  April. 

He  was  a  man  with  a  sof tish  eye  and  full-lipped  mouth 
and  was  probably  naturally  flesh-loving,  and  wanted 
his  coffee  very  hot,  and  looked  approvingly  at  me  as  I 
said: 

"Mon  ami,  I  know  all  about  it,  if  coffee  isn't  too  hot, 
it  isn't  hot  enough." 

He  ended  a  conversation  about  an  engagement  he 
had  been  in  by  saying:  "The  most  awful  sensation  is 
to  see  the  dust  raised  by  the  mitrailleuses  and  to  know 
that  you  have  got  to  walk  into  it  and  to  see  the  men 
ahead  of  you  stepping  with  strange  steps — and  some 
falling." 

As  I  said,  he  was  naturally  ease-loving  and  pain- 
fearing,  yet  that  is  the  way  his  dust  may  be  called  on  to 
return  to  dust. 

There  are  many  jokes  about  shrapnel  and  shells, 
but  nobody  ever  jokes  about  a  bullet.  It's  a  thing 
with  a  single  purpose — and  you  may  be  it. 

Our  headquarters  are  at  ,  not  far  away,  and  it 

was  at  Bar-le-Duc  that  I  first  saw  our  own  men  among 
the  French  for  the  same  strange  purpose.  Something 
stirred  deeply  in  my  heart,  with  an  accompanying  searing, 
scorching  consciousness  of  what  an  elemental  thing  they 
have  come  across  the  seas  to  do — quite  simply  kill  or 
be  killed.     It's  all  to  come,  for  "He  hath  loosed  the 

89 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible  swift  sword,"  and  it  is 
for  the  young  to  fight. 

At  3.30  they  come  into  the  canteen  and  ask  for  eigh- 
teen fried  eggs;  they  are  oozing  with  money,  and  they 
aren't  feeling  sentimental.  One  of  the  four  young 
spread-eagles  (he  proved  to  be  from  Texas,  and  was 
changing  a  big  plug  of  tobacco  from  one  side  of  his 
mouth  to  the  other)  said,  with  an  appraising  look  at  the 
counter,  that  he  could  "buy  us  out,"  and  a  second 
added,  "And  more,  too." 

"How  about  those  coming  in  later?"  I  suggest,  and 
then  I  ask  how  long  they've  been  here. 

"Been  here?  Just  five  hundred  years,"  a  small  one 
answers,  promptly,  "and  the  next  time  the  'Call'  comes 
they  won't  get  me.  They  can  take  the  house  and  the 
back  fence,  too,  but  they  won't  get  little  Joe.  This 
loving  another  country's  one  on  me!" 

"Don't  listen  to  him,  lady;  he's  homesick.  We're 
out  to  can  the  Kaiser,  and  he'll  take  some  canning 
yet,  but  I  say  next  July  he  will  be  about  as  welcome  as 
a  skunk  at  a  lawn-party." 

And  then  even  the  homesick  one  cheered  up.  The 
simile  made  me  think  of  summer  evenings  in  New  Eng- 
land, but  I  only  asked  when  they  were  to  go  back  to . 

"We  ought  to  have  been  there  at  10.15." 

I  gave  a  stern  glance  at  the  big  canteen  clock.  The 
hands  pointed  to  3.30.  They  were  then  five  and  a 
quarter  hours  late. 

"You  don't  know  'Guncourt.'  It's  a  fierce  place," 
said  one,  in  answer  to  the  look. 

"Aren't  you  busy?" 

"Holy  smoke!     She  says  are  we  busy!     Why,  we  dig 

ourselves  in  all  day,  and  we  dig  ourselves  out  all  night, 

and  somebody  after  you  all  the  time.     I  don't  call  this 

war.     We're  out  for  real  trouble." 

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THE    CANTEEN    AT    BAR-LE-DUC 

"Well,  you'll  get  it  when  you  see  your  officer,"  I  re- 
marked, unfeelingly. 

Just  then  a  poilu  whom  they  seemed  to  know  ap- 
proached with  his  ten  centimes.  One  of  the  Sammies 
knocks  it  out  of  his  hand  onto  the  counter,  points  to 
his  own  chest,  says,  "On  me,  a  square  meal,"  and 
opens  his  bursting  purse  for  me  to  take  whatever  is 
necessary. 

The  poilu,  hearing  the  chink  of  coin  and  rustle  of 
paper,  says  to  me,  with  eyes  the  size  of  saucers,  ilSont-ils 
tons  millionaires?"  .  .   . 

Apart  from  his  "private  resources,"  which  seem  un- 
limited, the  American  receives  just  twenty  times  a  day 
what  the  Frenchman  does. 

But  how  my  heart  goes  out  to  them,  so  young,  so 
untried,  so  generous — and  a  sea  of  blood  awaiting  them! 

Toward  morning,  when  a  chill  was  in  the  air,  a  thin- 
faced,  dark-eyed  man  with  glasses  shiveringly  drinks  his 
hot  chocolate.  "It's  too  long,  the  war,"  he  says,  "two 
years — even  three — mais  cela  traine  trop,  nos  bonnes 
qualites  s'usent  et  se  per  dent." 

"What  were  you  before  the  war?" 

"My  father  has  a  book-shop  at  Chartres,  j'adorais  les 
limes  et  une  bonne  lampe,"  he  added,  so  simply. 

And  then  a  trench-stained  comrade  came  up  to  him 
and  they  talked  after  this  fashion — one  couldn't  have 
done  better  oneself — while  I  mopped  up  the  counter  and 
refilled  my  jugs: 

"This  country  pleases  me.  I  will  come  back  and 
take  a  turn  about  after  the  war." 

"Mon  vieux,  one  should  never  return  to  a  place  where 
one  has  been  happy ;  one  is  apt  to  find  only  regrets  and 
disillusions.  You  are  thinking  of  the  young  boulangkre 
here,  but  she  herself  will  leave  the  town  after  the  hos- 
tilities!   And  then  what?     Un  seul  etre  vous  manque  et 

91 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

tout  est  depcuple!  But  nothing,  however,  counsels  one 
to  return  to  a  place  where  one  has  suffered." 

From  this  point  of  view  one  must  say  that  the  life 
of  the  poilu  is  ideal,  for  when  he  will  have  tried  all  the 
fronts,  including  those  of  the  Orient,  the  war  will  per- 
haps be  over. 

And  then  they  slung  everything  except  the  kitchen 
stove  on  their  persons,  and,  thanking  me,  went  out  to 
be  killed,  or,  in  the  very  best  event,  to  get  la  bonne 
blessure. 

One  in  a  thousand,  one  in  ten  thousand  gets  it,  la 
bonne  blessure,  indeed,  not  disfiguring,  not  incapacitat- 
ing, and  afterward,  sometimes,  decorations,  honors.  On 
the  other  side  they  say,  "Gluck  muss  der  Soldat  haben." 

A  strange,  intense  blue,  like  some  outer  curtain  to 
the  windows,  announced  the  coming  of  dawn,  and  out 
of  it  appeared  nine  men  shivering. 

"Why  are  you  so  cold?"  I  ask. 

"IZ  fait  du  brouillard"  said  one,  with  a  beard  in  a 
point  and  wearing  a  b£ret,  such  a  man  as  would  have  gone 
into  an  inn  of  Rabelais's  time,  en  route  for  some  seat  of 
war;  and  as  he  drank  his  big  bowl  of  chocolate  he 
added,  "Cela  console;  toward  dawn  one's  courage  is 
low." 

Then  a  young,  stone-deaf  man  with  blue  eyes  and  deli- 
cate, pink-skinned  face  came  in  with  something  vague 
and  searching  in  his  look.  I  didn't  realize  in  the  first 
moment  what  was  the  matter,  as"  I  asked,  did  he  want 
coffee  or  chocolate,  but  a  comrade  pointed  to  his  ears 
and  said,  "Verdun."  He  himself  smiled,  a  dear  young 
smile,  but  sudden  tears  came  to  my  eyes  and  I  slopped 
the  coffee. 

A  little  before  six  we  closed  the  canteen,  which  is 
always  swept  and  garnished  between  six  and  seven,  and 
went  back  to  the  house  where  Miss  Worthington,  who 

92 


THE    CANTEEN    AT    BAR-LE-DUC 

so  admirably  runs  it  in  conjunction  with  Miss  Alexander, 

lives. 

I  lay  me  on  a  sofa  with  my  shoes  unlaced — my  feet 
by  that  time  were  feeling  like  something  boneless  and 
bruised,  mashed  into  something  too  small. 

Seven-thirty  a  great  knocking  at  the  door. 

"L'alerte!  A  la  cave,  madarne!" 

I  was  then  in  a  state  where  a  bomb  couldn't  hurry 
me,  but,  the  knocks  continuing,  I  finally  got  up  and 
went  down-stairs  to  find  the  lower  floor  full  of  people, 
too  blase"  to  go  into  the  vaulted  cellar  below. 

1 '  Quelle  comZdie!"  said  one  woman.  ' '  Moi,  je  m  'en  vais." 

"Quelle  trage'die,  si  c'est  pour  vous  cette  fois,"  answered 
another,  pressing  her  baby  to  her  breast. 

"The  bits  of  shrapnel  from  the  anti-aircraft  guns 
firing  at  the  aeroplanes  make  more  victims  than  the 
bombs,"  said  another. 

Miss  Worthington  appeared  at  that  moment,  but 
decided,  however,  to  go  back  to  bed.  I  went  out  into 
the  hot  streets;  the  early  sun  was  shining  in  a  faultless 
sky.  The  Foyer  des  Allies  had  been  hastily  evacuated 
at  the  alerte,  according  to  orders,  so  I  asked  for  the 
nearest  church,  where  I  could  sit  down  in  peace,  or  com- 
parative peace,  out  of  the  glare  and  the  heat,  not  to 
mention  the  enemy  airplanes.  I  was  directed  up  the 
principal  street,  told  to  turn  down  by  the  river,  and 
was  proceeding  under  the  dusty  poplars  to  the  church 
of  St. -Jean,  when  suddenly  some  beauty  of  the  morn- 
ing touched  my  face  and  a  feeling  almost  of  joy  suc- 
ceeded the  fatigue  of  the  night.  I  was  turned  from 
thoughts  of  men  going  to  their  doom,  and  destruction 
coming  from  the  lovely  sky,  and  I  could  receive  only  the 
morning  light,  and  the  glory  of  the  shining  river  and  the 
rolling  hills  was  for  the  moment  mine;  and  I  saw  how 
"dying,  they  are  not  dead."  .  .  . 

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MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

Mass  was  over  when  I  got  to  church,  but  I  sat 
down,  crossed  myself,  and  commended,  with  a  sud- 
denly quiet  heart,  the  world  of  battle  to  its  God, 
and  then,  instead  of  enlacing  my  shoes  in  the 
sanctuary,  I  proceeded  to  lace  them  up,  having 
walked  from  my  abode  with  the  laces  tied  about 
my  ankles;  it  wasn't  as  sloppy  as  it  sounds,  con- 
sidering what  was  going  on  overhead.  But  I  found 
myself  thinking  of  praying  -  carpets,  and  rows  of 
sandals  outside  of  dim  mosques,  and  things  and  ways 
far  from  Bar-le-Duc. 

After  twenty  minutes  of  a  somewhat  hazy  contem- 
plation of  other  than  war  mysteries,  I  went  back  to 
the  canteen. 

Betwixt  the  time  I  had  left  it  and  my  return  a  bomb 
had  fallen  between  it  and  the  station;  a  large  piece  of 
roof  had  been  removed  from  the  station,  and  a  very  neat 
nick  had  been  made  in  the  corner  of  the  canteen  where 
we  kept  our  hats  and  coats  and  hung  up  our  aprons. 
The  street  in  between  looked  like  an  earthquake  street. 
I  stood  quite  still  for  a  second  of  time — not  thinking — ■ 
you  don't  think  on  such  occasions.  The  Barrisiens,  or, 
in  plain  English,  the  Bar-le-Dukites,  were  engaged  in 
business  as  usual. 

I  then  began  the  cutting  up  and  buttering  of  endless 
large  slices  of  bread,  with  a  Scotchwoman,  who  has  un- 
modifiable  opinions  about  Americans  —  any  and  all 
Americans.  Even  when  she  only  remarks,  "I  saw  two 
new  people  in  town  yesterday,  very  American-looking, 
very"  you  feel  there's  something  the  matter  with  the 
States,  and  if  you  had  time  you'd  get  argumentative, 
even  perhaps  annoyed. 

Soldiers  were  coming  in  again.  To  one  tired,  deep- 
eyed  man,  sitting  listlessly,  with  the  heavy  load  slipping, 
I  said: 

94 


THE    CANTEEN    AT    BAR-LE-DUC 

"Vous  avez  le  cafard,1  mon  ami?" 

And  he  answered,  suddenly,  as  if  the  words  had  been 
ejected  by  a  great  force  from  his  soul: 

"Je  monte  demain — and  I  can't  bear  the  sound  the 
bayonet  makes  going  in." 

I  answered,  "A  hot  cup  of  coffee  and  you  will  feel  all 
right  again."  But  to  myself  I  said,  "There'll  be  trouble 
for  him;   he  can't  any  more." 

And  then  a  huge  Senegalese,  all  spinal  column  and 
hip,  waving  a  generous  five-franc  note  in  his  hands, 
came  along  and  wanted  to  know  if  there  was  anybody 
bas  marine  among  the  ministrants,  as  he  had  a  day  off. 
The  service  is  quite  variegated,  as  will  be  seen  from 
these  random  specimens. 

Last  night  we  walked  up  the  hill  of  the  ancient  town. 
A  yellow  half-moon,  hanging  behind  the  fourteenth- 
century  tower,  further  decorated  the  scene.     We  sat  on 

1  In  L'Horizon  I  found  these  lines  from  Verlaine,  with  a  few  added, 
concerning  le  Cafard,  by  "Bi  Bi  Bi": 

Quelle  est  cette  douleur 
Qui  penetre  mon  cceur? 
C'est  Men  la  pire  peine 
De  ne  savoir  pourquoi 
Sans  amour  et  sans  haine 
Mon  c&ur  a  tant  de  peine. 
En  effet,  cher  Verlaine, 
C'est  Men  la  pire  peine 
Que  ta  fameuse  peine 
Et  les  poilus  sans  art 
La  nomment  le  Cafard. 

But  le  Cafard  differs  from  Verlaine's  peine  in  that  it  is  a  very  special 
kind  of  world-pain,  and  very  complete;  for  those  in  its  grip  know  why, 
as  well  as  not  why,  they  suffer.  The  memory  of  loved  and  early  things, 
very  probably  not  to  be  known  again,  is  part  of  it.  The  consciously  un- 
reasonable hope  that  all  will  be  well  in  an  extremely  uncertain  future 
is  another  part  of  it — and  underlying  it  is  crushing  physical  fatigue, 
sleeplessness,  hunger,  cold,  heat,  the  whole  smeared  in  the  blood  of 
brothers  and  foes,  the  dull  reaction  after  killing,  or  escape  from  being 
killed — one  can't  feel  that  there  is  anything  vague  about  le  Cafard. 

95 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

immemorial  steps,  in  a  little  V-shaped  place  that  framed 
the  valley  and  the  town,  and  talked  of  war  and  wars. 
I  thought  how  the  legendary  Gaul  had  wandered  over 
these  hills  and  these  wooded  stretches,  with  his  battle- 
ax  and  skin  about  him,  and  long-haired  women  had 
waited  his  return,  and  children  had  played  in  front  of 
caves.  As  the  clock  on  the  tower  struck  nine  a  woman 
appeared,  waving  her  arms  and  calling  out,  liUne  in- 
cendieV  and  we  went  higher  up  the  steps  and  saw  masses 
of  smoke  and  flames  on  one  of  the  hills.  It  was  the 
huge  barracks  for  refugees  that  was  burning,  and  the 
flames  were  blowing  toward  the  near-by  encampment 
for  German  prisoners.  Then  we  went  down  the  ancient 
roadway  through  the  dim,  warm,  summer  streets  to  the 
canteen  overflowing  with  blue-clad  men,  singing,  drink- 
ing, disputing.  A  blue  mist  of  smoke  and  breath  hung 
about  them,  with  a  smell  of  hot  wool  and  worn  leather — 
and  it  was  the  war.  As  I  put  on  my  apron  I  found 
myself  repeating  the  words: 

Bents  ceux  qui  sont  marts  simplement:    en  viclimes, 
Et  n'ayant  de  la  guerre  eprouve  que  Vhorreur. 
Benis  ceux  qui  sont  morts  sans  nourrir  en  leur  cceur 
La  haine  et  tous  ses  maux,  la  gloire  et  tons  scs  crimes. 


CHAPTER   III 

THEATRICALS    AND   CAMOUFLAGE 

27th  July,  evening. 

THIS  afternoon  Lieutenant  Robin  fetched  us  to  the 
theatrical    representation    the    Division    Marocaine 
was  to  give. 

Generals  thick  as  leaves  in  Vallombrosa  were  there 
in  a  hemicycle  about  the  stage,  pressed  close  by  the 
flood  of  poilus.  Terrible  heat  in  the  great,  glass-roofed 
auditorium,  a  slanting  afternoon  sun  pouring  itself  in 
like  hot  gold.  Some  thousands  of  spectators;  thick 
odor  of  poilu;  blind  being  led  in;  groups  of  one-legged 
men  naturally  gravitating  to  one  another;  groups  of 
one-armed  the  same.  A  few  gardes-malades  from  the 
hospitals,  and  ourselves  the  only  women  in  the  audience. 

We  were  presented  at  the  door  with  some  copies  of 
a  charming,  really  literary  newspaper,  UHorizon,  Jour- 
nal des  poilus,  and  there  was  a  little  paragraph,  llHier- 
archie  frangaise  qu'on  trouve  au  Thedtre  des  Armees," 
which  also  described  the  protocol  of  seating,  "In  the 
first  row  near  the  stage  wounded  men  are  lying,  im- 
mediately behind  them  wounded  men  are  sitting,  then 
come  ladies,  if  there  are  any — and  then  come  officers!" 
General  Goigoux  and  General  Abbevillers  sat  near  us. 

While  waiting  we  looked  at  UHorizon  and  laughed 
with  General  Goigoux  over  a  paragraph  showing  the 
philosophy  of  a  son  of  Mars  under  certain  circum- 
stances, and  it  was  the  following; 

97 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

Nature  is  kind.  She  places  the  remedy  near  the  ill  and  often 
cures,  as  one  has  seen,  evil  by  evil. 

A  woman,  too  much  loved,  sent  me  a  letter  so  cruel  that  I  didn't 
even  have  the  strength  to  tear  it  up,  but  carried  it  around  in  my 
pocket  for  weeks. 

One  night,  being  quartered  in  a  stable,  I  took  my  coat  off  and 
hung  it  up. 

The  next  day,  no  letter.    A  cow  had  eaten  it.     Nature  is  kind. 


When  General  Gouraud,  first  in  command,  entered, 
the  "Marseillaise"  sounded,  a  thrill  went  through  the 
vast  assemblage,  and  we  all  arose.  Le  Lion  d'Orient  is 
tall,  intensely  straight,  his  whole  thin,  khaki-clad  body 
on  parallel  lines  with  his  perpendicular  armless  right 
sleeve.  Long,  straight,  brown  hair  en  brosse,  bronzed 
skin.  His  entry  was  a  thing  not  to  be  forgotten.  I 
wondered  "Is  it  the  East  that  stamps  great  chiefs  with 
such  majesty,  that  can  give  them  such  calm?"  and  I 
thought  of  Gallipoli — blue  seas,  battles,  wounds,  hos- 
pital ships.  Then  the  curtain  rose  on  one  of  the  most 
delightful  theatrical  representations  I  have  ever  seen, 
screamingly  funny,  and  quite  chaste. 

But  all  that  entrain,  all  that  life,  to  be  snuffed  out  to- 
morrow or  the  next  day,  or  the  next?  At  Craonne  or 
Reims  or  Verdun  or  wherever  it  may  be?  And  how 
natural  that  they  should  sing  of  love  and  women,  and 
say  witty  things  concerning  food  and  raiment  and  the 
government,  till  the  end! 

After  the  performance,  during  which  nobody  had 
ever  been  so  hot  before,  the  sun  moving  across  the  hall 
and  grilling  each  row  in  turn,  we  passed  out  in  a  great 
jam  of  poilus.  One  huge  man,  with  the  thickest  of 
meridional  accents  and  red  cheeks,  and  eyes  like  two 
black  lanterns,  and  a  coal-black  beard,  was  gesticulating 
at  a  small,  hook-nosed,  blond  man. 

"Le  Midi,  le  Midi — qiCest-ce  que  tu  en  sais,  toi,  beta? 

98 


THEATRICALS    AND    CAMOUFLAGE 

Les  Anglais  font  dtjd,  pris  ton  trou  de  Calais,  aussi  je 
te  demande,  sale  type,  what  army  corps  took  the  plateau 
de  Cretonne* '  and  he  burst  into  a  great  laugh  of  triumph. 
Then,  borne  on  the  blue  waves,  we  found  ourselves  in 
the  open  air  and  realized  what  we  had  been  breathing. 
General  Goigoux  presented  us  to  General  Gouraud 
standing  by  his  motor  with  several  other  generals,  while 
a  squad  of  German  prisoners,  looking  out  of  the  corners 
of  their  eyes,  were  being  marched  by.  His  mien  was 
dignity  itself,  and  out  under  the  sky  one  was  even  more 
conscious  of  that  harmony  of  browns  and  straight  lines, 
that  something  remote  yet  majestic  in  his  being.  As  we 
turned  to  go  I  saw  him  speaking  to  a  blind  zouave,  and 
he  pressed  his  hand  lingeringly  on  the  man's  shoulder. 
Oh,  enfants  de  la  pairie! 

Saturday,  July  28th,  10.30  a.m. 

All  last  night  the  strange,  recurring,  sinister  sound  of 
the  sirenes  over  the  plain  of  Chalons,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  like  cries  of  men  of  the  Stone  Age. 

These  two  days  I  have  been  haunted  by  ghosts  of 
beings  of  the  twilight  ages;  elusive  emanations,  dim  sug- 
gestions of  their  psychologies  have  at  moments  pos- 
sessed me  in  this  city  of  the  Catalaunian  Plains. 

Rested  in  my  pink-silk  wrapper,  dead  tired — too  tired 
to  care  whether  "they"  got  here  or  not — and  stayed  in 
bed  during  the  alertes,  but  I  thought  of  airmen,  attackers 
and  defenders,  in  the  soft  summer  sky,  a  golden  half- 
moon  lighting  a  dim  heaven. 

Dreamed,  but,  only  in  snatches,  of  peace  and  the 
ways  of  peace. 

At  4.30  I  heard  Joseph's  gas-bark  and  knew  he  was 
again  with  us,  stretched  out  on  the  chaise-longue  under 
the  chestnut-tree. 

As  I  stood  at  the  window  my  thoughts  went  twisting 

99 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

about  the  stars  of  the  gorgeous  night  that  was  so  soon 
to  give  way  to  another  summer  day,  and  I  suddenly 
saw  human  beings,  only  as  tiny  specks,  everywhere 
going  forth  at  some  word  of  command  to  their  doom. 
There  was  a  flinging  back  of  my  thoughts  upon  me,  and 
I  turned  from  my  window,  as  suddenly  the  chill  of  early 
dawn  and  the  boom  of  cannon  came  in,  and  I  could  see 
nothing  for  tears  and  I  knew  the  beauteous  earth  for 
what  it  is — the  abode  of  mad  horrors. 

Later. 

Paid  my  respects  to  General  Goigoux  for  an  instant 
of  time  (I  can  always  get  out  quickly)  in  the  old  gray 
house  of  the  Rue  Grande  Etape,  and  found  him  as  al- 
ways, distingue,  human,  untired,  cordial.  Officers  pass- 
ing in  and  out  of  his  room,  and  the  walls  tapestried  with 
maps.  Later  Colonel  Rolland  of  the  ist  Zouaves,  very 
jaunty  in  his  red  fez,  adoring  his  men  and  adored  by 
them,  and  flicking  his  leg  with  a  short  cane  having  a 
deadly  knife  on  a  spring  in  the  top,  took  us  to  the  railroad 
station,  to  inspect  the  great,  dreary  sheds  that  with 
time,  labor,  and  much  energy  are  to  become  La  Cantine 
Americaine.  Blue -clad  men  were  lying  around  like 
logs  in  inert  bundles  on  the  earthen  floor.  One  had  to 
step  over  legs  and  motley  equipment  to  get  anywhere. 
A  dreadful  sound  of  hammering  was  echoing  through  the 
vast  spaces,  without,  however,  seeming  to  disturb  the 
slumbers  of  those  men,  and  I  dare  say  was  as  a  lullaby 
in  comparison  to  the  first-line  trenches. 

We  stepped  into  the  kitchen.  A  smiling,  twinkling- 
eyed  cuistot l  who  probably  had  something  awful  the 
matter  with  him — flat-foot  or  hernia  or  something  of  the 
kind,  or  he  wouldn't  have  been  there — with  pride  asked 
us  to  partake  of  some  of  his  coffee.     He  proceeded  to 

1  Cook, 
ioo 


THEATRICALS    AND    CAMOUFLAGE 

dip  it  from  a  great,  steaming  caldron,  pouring  it 
into  worn  tin  cups  carefully  wiped  first  on  his  much- 
used  apron.  My  soul  responding  to  echoes  of  fraternity 
enabled  me  to  drink  with  a  smile,  which,  though  it 
started  out  rather  sickly,  behaved  all  right  as  I  re- 
turned the  cup  with  compliments.  The  cuistot  said  he 
hoped  the  cantine  would  soon  be  in  order,  and  as  he 
looked  through  the  small  opening  through  which  he 
shoved  the  cups  to  the  poilus,  rendered  still  smaller  by 
piles  of  bread  and  festoons  of  sausage,  he  added,  "Les 
tetes  de  ces  dames  seront  plus  consolantes  que  la  mienne." 
He  was  a  nice,  human  cuistot,  though  no  lover  of  water 
except  for  making  coffee,  and  then,  as  we  fell  into  con- 
versation, he  added,  "Si  la  guerre  pouvait  finir;  tnais  il 
y  a  tin  fosse"  de  dignity  et  personne  des  deux  cotes  n'ose  le 
sauter."     These  poilus  are  astounding! 

We  then  visited  Lieutenant  Tonzin,  who  is  going  to 
decorate  the  cantine  as  never  cantine  was  decorated. 
He  was  at  the  camouflage  grounds.  As  one  knows, 
camouflage  is  de  Vart  de  la  guerre  le  dernier  cri,  but  the 
grounds  were  discreetly  veiled  from  public  gaze,  and  we 
were  directed  into  a  little  garden,  green-treed  and  sun- 
flecked.  In  it  was  a  trestle  with  a  large,  very  clever, 
plaster  cast  of  a  camion  taking  poilus  somewhere;  they 
were  hanging  from  every  possible  place  except  the 
wheels,  just  such  a  sight  as  one  constantly  sees  on  the 
roads  near  the  front. 

The  gayest  sounds  of  whistling  and  singing  issued  from 
the  rather  coquet  sun-flooded  house  behind  the  garden. 
Several  other  young  artists  appeared  on  hearing  women's 
voices,  loving  life,  adoring  art  with  a  new  adoration, 
and  who  with  something  of  wonder  and  much  of  thank- 
fulness found  themselves  for  a  sweet,  brief  space  in 
charge  of  the  camouflage  work,  with  brush  and  chisel 
again  in  hand  instead  of  bayonets. 
8  IQI 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

We  looked  at  the  designs  for  the  cantine  decorations, 
quite  charming — but  we  delicately  suggested  suppress- 
ing the  figure  of  a  too  fascinating  "mees"  that  was  to 
embellish  the  entrance  and  point  to  the  poilus  the  way 
to  those  delights.  We  feared  some  confusion  of 
thought. 

Afterward  went  to  church  at  Notre  Dame,  and,  sit- 
ting there,  drew  my  first  quiet  breath  in  Chalons,  out 
of  the  hot  streets.  Beautiful  music  rolling  through  the 
gray,  antique  vaulting.  A  white  bier  near  the  altar; 
some  beloved  child  was  being  laid  away  from  sight  and 
hearing  and  touch  and  earthly  hope.  As  I  looked  about 
the  lovely  gray  spaces  I  remembered  how  in  La  Cathe- 
drale  Huysmans  says  the  length  symbolizes  the  pa- 
tience of  the  Church  during  trials  and  persecutions; 
the  width,  that  love  which  dilates  the  heart;  and  the 
height,  our  aspirations  and  our  hopes — and  some  speech- 
less gratitude  overflowed  my  soul  because  of  being  one 
of  the  enduring  community  to  whom,  through  the  gor- 
geous, terrible  ages,  nothing  human  is  foreign.  I  had 
a  strange,  complete  sensation  of  brotherhood  and  I 
saw  us  all  of  the  great  laughing,  weeping  caravan,  wind- 
ing through  the  desert,  and  the  Church  compassionate 
the  spot  of  living  waters.  And  how  "men  must  endure 
their  going  hence,  even  as  their  coming  hither.  Ripe- 
ness is  all."  .  .  . 

On  the  same  site  had  once  been  a  pagan  temple,  and 
on  its  altar  was  the  figure  of  a  Virgin,  and  at  her  feet 
were  graven  the  words,  "Virgini  PariturV  ("to  the 
Virgin  who  shall  bring  forth").  And  it  had  come  to 
pass. 

The  most  precious  of  the  old  windows  have  lately 
been  put  out  of  harm's  way,  but  the  ogival  tops  remain 
with  their  jewels  of  medieval  reds  and  blues;  and  on 
each  side,  as  one  looks  through  the  lovely  gray  vaulting, 

102 


THEATRICALS    AND    CAMOUFLAGE 

are  delicate  windows  of  a  later  epoch,  with  designs  in 
fawn  and  green  and  yellow. 

As  I  came  out  behind  the  mourners  following  the  little 
white  bier,  I  noticed  again  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart 
the  revolutionary  defacement  of  the  splendid  portals. 
Men  in  all  ages  have  had  seasons  of  madness,  wherein 
they  destroyed  whatever  mute  and  unresisting  beauty 
was  within  their  reach. 

Again  through  the  hot  streets — an  epic  in  themselves 
of  war,  dust,  sun,  blue-clad  men,  blue-gray  automobiles, 
gallooned  officers,  and  I  realized  among  other  things 
that  without  uniforms  war  would  be  impossible. 

Bought  Le  Champ  de  Bataille  de  V Epopee,  also  Le 
Mannequin  d'Osier,  out  of  a  huge  stock  of  Anatole 
France's  books,  who  is  evidently  a  favorite  here.  I 
passed  through  the  old  courtyard  of  the  museum,  her- 
metically sealed  depuis  la  campagne,  as  the  porter  told 
me  when  I  sought  his  lodge,  from  which  the  most  savory 
of  noonday  smells  was  issuing.  Uninteresting  and  en- 
tirely beside  the  point,  Buddhist  sculptures  fill  one  side 
of  the  court,  and  then,  passing  through  the  portal  of  a 
seventeenth-century  church,  transported  there  when 
the  church  itself  was  being  done  away  with,  one  finds 
oneself  in  a  narrow  passage  on  the  walls  of  which  are 
hung  quaint  old  fire-backs,  plaques  de  foyer.  The  first 
is  of  the  eighteenth  century, ' '  V amour  d&sarme'"  (love  was 
nearly  always  disarmed  in  those  days),  and  this  one 
represented  Cupid  supporting  a  languorous  lady.  liLe 
retour  du  marche"  of  Louis  XVI  depicted  a  housewife  re- 
turning with  a  full  basket  on  her  arm,  and  evoked  the  odor 
of  the  porter's  pot-au-feu.  A  French  soldier  wounded 
in  the  Crimea,  1855,  with  his  colonel  bending  over 
him,  might  have  been  any  one  of  a  hundred  thousand 
scenes  of  to-day.  On  one  were  the  arms  of  the  King 
of  Spain,  and  the  date  1608,  and  on  another  those  of 

103 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

Maria  Theresa  and  her  consort,  Francis  III,  Duke  of 
Lorraine.  Their  origins  were  as  diverse  as  the  history 
of  Lorraine  itself,  and  I  glimpsed  family  groups  sitting 
about  hearths,  looking  at  them  through  the  flames. 

Later. 
Met  to-day  two  Englishwomen  coming  out  of  the  hos- 
pital. One,  nearing  sixty,  had  something  ardent  in  her 
charming  blue  eyes  and  under  austerely  brushed  whiten- 
ing hair;  there  was  a  suggestion  of  banked  fires — 
banked  under  ashes  of  circumstance,  probably,  as  well 
as  time.  The  other,  somewhat  younger,  in  the  full  grip 
of  Vdge  dangereux,  had  something  inexorable  in  her  re- 
gard. When  we  passed  on  I  asked  who  they  were,  and 
found  they  were  daily  doers  of  acts  of  mercy  and  devo- 
tion, and  then  I  found  myself  looking  for  eternal  reasons 
in  transient  things,  under  the  impression  made  by  those 
two  women — met  only  in  passing,  but  whose  emanations 
I  suddenly  caught.  And  I  thought:  Among  the  in- 
numerable phenomena  of  the  war  are  these  women  of 
various  ages  (though  the  phenomenon  is  most  apparent 
between  thirty-five  and  sixty),  brought  for  the  first  time 
into  personal  contact  with  man,  other  than  father  or 
brother,  ministering  to  his  wants,  witness  of  his  agonies, 
awed  spectator  of  his  continual  apotheosis,  and  all  the 
daily  transmutations  of  the  definite  and  ordinary  into 
the  infinite  and  divine.  The  world  war  gives  the  one 
chance  for  the  twisting  of  conventional  lives,  lived  along 
the  straight  est  of  lines,  into  completely  unexpected 
shapes.  They  come  from  abodes  of  hitherto  unescap- 
able  virginities,  these  elemental  women  of  indescrib- 
able innocence,  with  that  warm,  wondering  look,  or 
sometimes  that  determined  and  inexorable  look,  upon 
their  faces,  these  unchosen  and  unmated,  to  become 
part  of  the  strange  lining  of  the  war,  part  of  the  vast 

104 


THEATRICALS    AND    CAMOUFLAGE 

patchwork.  Not  the  least  strange  are  these  pale,  thin 
bits,  sewn  into  something  riotous,  reckless,  multicolored, 
heroic.  It's  a  far  cry  from  Shepherd's  Bush  or  Clapham 
Junction  or  Stepney  Green  to  battle-fields,  hospitals, 
vanishings,  potent  reminders  of  forces  withdrawn  for- 
ever from  the  world-sum,  or,  still  more,  of  convalescences 
and  evocations  of  returning  forces,  but  not  re-established 
order. 

Everywhere  the  subtle  but  deathless  emanation  of 
the  male — his  heroisms,  his  agonies,  his  needs,  his  weak- 
ness, and  his  strength. 

Can  one  wonder  at  the  mighty  tide  obeying  nameless 
natural  laws,  like  other  tides,  that  flood  the  areas  where 
the  manhood  of  the  world  is  concentrated? 

Very  hot.  Out  there  in  the  Champagne  Pouilleuse 
men  are  marching  in  the  white  dust,  resting  in  the  white 
dust,  giving  up  their  lives  in  the  white  dust.  Am  sitting 
under  the  chestnut-tree.  A  soldier,  in  civil  life  a  gar- 
dener, has  been  sent  to  tidy  up  our  garden,  and  its  belle 
patine  will  soon  give  way  to  spick-and-spanness.  I 
sensed  such  a  passion  of  tenderness  in  the  way  he 
handled  his  rake  that  I  went  over  to  speak  to  him,  and 
this  is  his  history.  He  is  from  Cette — une  ville  si  jolie — 
and  he  speaks  with  the  heavy  accent  of  his  part  of  the 
world.  He  is  a  territorial  and  forms  part  of  the  £tat- 
Civil  des  Champs  de  Bataille  (civilian  workers  on  the 
battle-fields).  This  doesn't  sound  bad,  but  it  really 
means  that  since  he  was  called,  eighteen  months  ago, 
he,  who  all  his  life  has  planted  flowers,  has  been  digging 
up  dead  bodies,  hunting  in  a  literal  "body  of  death" 
to  find  the  plaques,  and  then  identifying  by  means  of 
a  map  the  place  where  they  are  found. 

"Madame,  je  n'en  pouvais  plus.  It  was  too  terrible. 
I  am  forty-seven  years  old,  but  I  asked  to  be  put  among 
the  attacking  troops.     They  refused,  but  sent  me  here. 

105 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

Now  in  this  garden  I  have  found  heaven  again."     And 
his  eyes,  his  soft,  suffering  eyes,  filled  with  tears. 

I  asked  him  about  his  family — one  son  is  fighting  in 
the  Vosges. 

"He  is  six  feet  four  and  he  so  resembles  Albert  I  that 
they  call  him  le  rot  des  Beiges.  I  lost  my  daughter  a 
few  months  ago — a  beautiful  girl  with  curling  blond 
hair.  After  her  fiance  fell  at  Verdun,  she  went  into  a 
decline.  My  other  son  is  young,  seventeen,  but  his 
turn  is  near.  I  had  a  beautiful  family."  The  gardener 
himself  is  straight-featured  and  straight -browed,  caught 
up  how  terribly  in  the  wine-press  of  the  war.  "All  my  life 
I  have  been  gardener  in  great  houses,"  he  added,  with 
a  shudder.  "The  work  they  gave  me  la-bas  is  the  most 
terrible  of  all.  On  n'y  resiste  pas  a  la  longue.  O  les 
pauvres  testes  qu'on  trouve!     O,  Madame!' " 

I  asked  him  to  bring  me  the  photographs  of  his  family, 
and  his  face  brightened  for  a  moment  as  he  stood  with 
his  head  uncovered.  One  speaks  to  any  chance  person, 
and  immediately  one  gets  a  story  that  is  fit  only  to  be 
handled  by  some  master  of  that  incomparable  thing, 
French  prose. 

Later. 

A  while  ago  investigated  the  house.  Up-stairs  is  a 
little  room  toward  the  north,  papered  in  a  yellow-and- 
white  pin-stripe  design  of  forty  or  fifty  years  ago.  In 
it  is  a  yellow  baroque  niche  with  a  shell  design  at  the 
top,  having  a  temple  or  altar-like  suggestion,  in  spite 
of  the  too-large,  ugly,  marble-topped  mahogany  wash- 
stand  that  fills  it.  Above  the  mahogany  bed  is  a  carved 
wooden  holy  water  font,  a  little  shelf  in  the  corner  for 
books,  and  another  for  a  lamp,  and  there  is  a  window 
looking  out  on  small  gardens  cut  up  into  bits  for  flowers 
and  vegetables.  As  I  entered  it  I  seemed  to  know  that 
some  spirit  rare  and  strong  enough  to  project  emana- 

106 


THEATRICALS    AND    CAMOUFLAGE 

tions,  sensible  even  to  a  stranger  long  after,  had  lived, 
perhaps  died,  in  it.  I  settled  down  immediately  in  a 
really  not  comfortable,  too-small,  brown,  upholstered 
arm-chair,  sloping  forward,  and  felt  somehow  as  if  I 
were  in  choice  company,  and  began  to  turn  the  pages 
of  Bordeaux's  Dernier  jour  du  Fort  de  Vaux,  which  I 
had  in  my  hand  as  I  entered.  But  something  unseen 
held  my  attention,  not  the  book.  The  room  was  gently, 
softly  haunted,  and  the  world  of  spirits  was  sensibly 
about  me.  .  .  .  Anyway,  the  plain  of  Chalons  gives  me 
the  creeps. 

Joseph,  reappearing  this  afternoon,  brought  the  news 
that  there  had  been  another  air  raid  on  Bar-le-Duc  at 
noon,  and  they  had  dropped  pounds  of  leaflets  telling 
of  the  Russian  defeat,  Rumanians  retreating,  in  danger 
of  being  enveloped.  The  leaflets  wound  up  by  saying 
the  Germans  were  sick  of  the  war — they  supposed  the 
French  were — and  why  not  have  peace? 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   BURIAL    OF   PERE   CAFARD 

Chalons,  Sunday,  29th. 

TELEGRAM  that  M.  de  Singay  may  be  passing 
through.  I  would  like  to  see  his  grand  seigneur 
contour  decorate  our  i860  establishment.  Go  to  the 
Bureau  de  la  Place,  and  nothing  less  than  a  general 
(Abbevillers)  grasps  the  receiver  and  telephones  for  me 
to  Bar-le-Duc — but  without  result.  They  are  all  in 
"our"  secteur  "of  a  courtesy"! 

Twelve-o'clock  mass  at  Notre  Dame.  Again  rolling 
music,  and  the  green  vestment  of  the  priest  especially 
beautiful  at  the  end  of  that  high  gray  Gothic  vista. 
Many,  many  military.  I  thought  of  an  English  officer 
who  said  to  me  not  long  ago: 

"See  how  the  soldier  is  exalted  in  the  New  Testament. 
It  is  certainly  not  the  man  of  law,  the  money-changer, 
the  man  of  politics,  nor  governors.  When  Christ  has 
an  especial  lesson  to  show,  how  often  He  shows  it 
through  the  soldier,  even  unto  the  servant  of  the  cen- 
turion." 

On  returning,  found  Mrs.  S.  and  Miss  E.  arrived  from 
the  village  of  the  fifteenth-century  towers,1  and  the  khaki- 
clad  sons  of  Mars  from  over  the  seas,  their  hearts  filled 
with  patriotism  and  their  tank  with  American  essence. 
Coffee   under   the    chestnut  -  tree,   lovely  sun    filtering 

1  Gondrecourt,  the  first  American  encampment  in  Lorraine. 

108 


THE  BURIAL  OF  P£RE  CAFARD 

through,  and  the  little  white  butterflies  flying  about  the 
little  white  ash-tree;  and  we  told  stories,  being  all  of 
us  souls  that  laugh,  which  we  did,  till  we  couldn't 
breathe,  at  the  story  of  the  woman 's-preparedness 
meeting  in  a  certain  transcendental  town  where  the 
head  of  the  assembly  in  solemn  accents  besought  as 
many  as  felt  drawn  to  such  work  to  become  automobilists 
— "and  the  moment  the  Germans  set  foot  in, New  York 
rush  the  virgins  to  the  West,  preferably  Kansas  City." 
In  the  town  of  brotherly  love,  where  a  like  assemblage 
was  held,  an  immediate  position  was  available,  March, 
1 91 7,  with  a  commission  of  major-general,  to  look  after 
dead  soldiers'  widows  for  another  blinking  female.  Oh! 
Id,  Id! — and  when  one  thinks  we've  got  to  win  the  war! 

Later. 

Have  just  laid  down  Le  Mannequin  d'Osier,  completely 
dazzled  by  that  first  chapter,  so  monstrously  clever,  so 
diabolically  lucid,  so  icily  logical,  so  magnetically  cyni- 
cal, and  I  said  to  myself,  after  all,  "one  can  only  write 
of  war  in  between  wars."  I  long  for  a  friend  to  read 
with  me  the  pages  where  M.  Roux,  on  short  leave  during 
his  years'  military  service,  says  to  M.  Bergeret,  "II  y  a 
quatre  mois  que  je  n'ai  pas  entendu  une  parole  intelli- 
gente,"  to  the  paragraph  where  M.  Bergeret  says,  "Mais 
nous  sommes  un  peuple  de  heros  et  nous  croyons  toujours 
que  nous  sommes  trahis."  It  stimulated  a  desire  for  the 
discussion  of  things  as  they  are,  over  against  what  one 
idiotically  hopes  they  may  be,  with  a  bit  of  imagination 
concerning  the  future  thrown  in. 

July  2Qth,  evening. 

In  the  afternoon  we  all  went  to  another  theatrical 
representation  in  the  big  hall,  given  by  the  ier  Regiment 
de   Marche   des   Zouaves.    Again    immense    concourse. 

iog 


MY    LORRAINE   JOURNAL 

Again  the  "Marseillaise,"  and  again  the  Lion  d' Orient 
made  his  majestic  entry,  and  dozens  of  generals  and  high 
officials  followed  him,  and  again  all  sat  forming  their 
glittering  hemicycle  in  front  of  the  stage.  Again  a  few 
nurses,  some  wives  of  officers,  and  the  thousands  of 
poilus. 

A  great  poster  read:  "Vous  Ues  pries  oVassister  au 
convoi,  service,  et  enterrement  du  Pire  Cafard,  assassine 
par  le  Communique". 

(iLe  deuil  sera  conduit  par  le  Pinard,  le  Jus,  la  Gniole, 
le  Tabac,  et  tous  les   tembres  du  Chacal  hurlant.^ 

It  appears  that  those  of  the  ist  Zouaves  still  in  hos- 
pital had  had  a  rise  in  temperature  at  the  thought  that 
their  representation  might  not  equal  thatof  the  Moroccan 
Division  of  Friday.  The  Compere  was  made  to  look  as 
much  as  possible  like  Colonel  Rolland — adored  by  his 
men.  "On  Kmet  Ca!"  has  been  given  in  the  trenches 
all  over  the  front,  and  was  just  as  funny  and  amusing 
as  the  other,  but  there  was  a  strange  intermezzo  about 
three  o'clock,  when  the  dreadful  sun,  shining  through 
the  glass  panes  of  the  sides  (on  the  roof  great  squares  of 
canvas  had  been  spread),  began  to  get  fainter.  It  was 
like  being  in  the  hot-room  of  a  Turkish  bath.  Sud- 
denly a  darkness  fell,  accompanied  by  a  deafening  and 
terrifying  noise  of  a  heavy  rattling  on  the  roof  and  a 
beating  in  at  the  sides;  the  voices  and  music  were 
completely  drowned  and  the  performance  had  to  be 
suspended.  Even  the  officers  were  beginning  to  look 
about — when  the  lights  suddenly  went  out  and  we  found 
ourselves  in  Stygian  blackness  at  4.30  of  a  summer 
afternoon,  the  terrific  noise  continuing,  with  the  under- 
note  of  the  stirring  of  the  thousands  assembled.  A 
nameless  fear,  or  something  akin  to  it,  went  through 
the  vast  assemblage.  Finally  we  realized  that  it  was 
heaven,  not  the  enemy,  bombarding  us,  as  hailstones, 

no 


THE  BURIAL  OF  PkRE  CAFARD 

even  by  the  time  they  had  gone  through  many  hot  hands, 
as  big  as  turkey  eggs,  were  passed  about.  There  was 
the  sound  of  breaking  glass,  water  began  to  rush  in,  the 
heavy  canvas,  spread  on  the  roof  as  protection  against 
the  sun,  and  also  to  prevent  the  light  from  being  seen 
from  the  air,  alone  prevented  the  roof  from  breaking  in. 
Finally  the  lights  reappeared  and  the  performance  pro- 
ceeded to  the  diminishing  sound  of  heavy  rain — but  it 
was  a  strange  experience.  Even  those  generals  of  Olym- 
pic calm  had  begun  to  "think  thoughts"  at  one  mo- 
ment. It  would  have  been  a  big  "bag,"  had  anything 
been  doing,  and  we  all  knew  it. 

Mrs.  S.  and  Miss  E.  have  been  persuaded  to  stay  at 
the  house  by  the  Marne,  rather  than  at  La  Haute  Mere 
Dieu,  and  we  have  arranged  to  double  up. 

I  am  to  motor  back  to  Paris  with  them  to-morrow. 


CHAPTER  V 

A   PROVIDENTIAL   FORD 

Paris,  July  31st. 

YESTERDAY,  at  8.30  in  the  damp  morning,  Lieu- 
tenant Robin  appeared  with  my  military  pass  to 
return  by  auto  instead  of  by  train,  and  I  said  a  special 
farewell  to  the  gardener,  carrying  our  bags  out  to  the 
motor  in  a  passionate  tenderness  of  courtesy.  Miss 
Nott  and  Miss  Mitchell  bade  us  Godspeed,  and  we 
passed  over  the  Marne  and  out  of  town.  At  the  con- 
signe  examination  of  our  papers,  our  charming  chauffeuse 
excited  much  attention.  An  officer  standing  there  with 
pasteboard  box  and  leather  bag  asked  if  we  would  give 
him  a  lift.  The  road  was  unusually  empty  and  he  had 
been  awaiting  an  act  of  Providence  for  two  hours.  We 
were  it. 

He  would  be  in  ordinary  times  a  Frenchman  of  the 
stereotyped  banal  sort,  and  he  was  entirely  without 
charm,  though  I  dare  say  he  is  known  as  a  beau  garcon 
in  Lyons,  where  before  the  war  he  was  marchand  de 
bois.  But  the  war  transmutes  everything  it  touches, 
and  he,  too,  had  undergone  the  subtle  change.  He  said, 
quite  simply  for  a  man  naturally  fatuous,  "Je  ne  rc- 
trouverai  jamais  ma  vie  d*  autre  fois."  I  seemed  to  see 
what  that  life  had  been.  Small  but  good  business  trans- 
actions; some  success  with  women,  as  I  said  he  would 
be  considered  as  handsome;   the  theater;  reading  news- 

112 


A    PROVIDENTIAL    FORD 

papers  in  a  cafe ;  talking  of  the  happenings  of  his  quar- 
ter of  the  town — and  the  lamp  of  his  soul  burning  only 
dimly.  But  even  he  has  been  caught  up  in  the  "chariot 
that  rides  the  ridges  "  and  must  partake  of  la  haine  et  tous 
ses  maux,  la  gloire  et  tous  ses  crimes.  We  drop  him  at  a 
crossroad  and  he  takes  a  muddy  side-path  to  the  village 
where  his  regiment  is  billeted. 

At  another  cross  way  just  out  of  the  village  of  Vertus 
another  officer  was  waiting.  We  called  out,  "Is  this 
the  road  to  Epernay?"  And  then,  "Do  you  want  a 
lift?"  This  time  it  was  a  dark-eyed  young  man  with 
a  kindling  glance  and  something  responsive  and  mer- 
curial in  his  being,  giving  a  sensation  of  personality, 
awake,  running,  a-thrill.  He  had  twenty-four  hours'  per- 
mission to  go  to  Paris  to  see  his  mother,  and  had  arrived 
to  see  the  train  pulling  out  of  the  little  station.  He 
also  was  waiting  Fate  at  the  crossroads,  and  crossroads 
in  war-time  are  a  favorite  abode  of  Fate.  He  had  been 
wounded  near  Suippes,  lay  twenty-four  hours  in  a  shell- 
hole,  and  was  finally  brought  in  by  some  man  he  didn't 
know,  whose  head  was  blown  off  as  he  was  pulling  him 
into  the  trench.  Something  deep  rustled  in  my  heart 
at  the  vision  of  the  splendor  of  that  anonymity.  Six 
months  in  hospital,  six  months  of  convalescing,  and  then 
a  hunger  for  the  front — quorum  pars  fuit. 

We  were  passing  through  a  beautiful  country  of  vine- 
yards, Vertus,  Mesnil,  Avize,  in  the  loveliness  of  graded 
greens,  malachite,  beryl,  emerald,  jasper,  and  stretches 
of  aquamarine  where  the  grapes  had  been  powdered 
with  the  melange' de  Bordeaux.  Everywhere  were  little 
sharp,  steep  hills,  their  plantings  taking  all  kinds  of 
lights  as  they  turned  to  east  or  west  or  south. 

At  Epernay  we  wound  about  the  streets  till  we  came 
to  the  Hotel  de  1'Euiope,  marked  with  a  star  in  the  guide ; 
but  you  see  no  stars  when  you  get  into  its  encumbered, 

113 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 


dull  little  courtyard — as  slightly  modern  as  possible — 
ask  for  luncheon,  any  kind  of  luncheon,  and  find  one 
can't  have  it  or  anything  till  twelve,  the  only  fixed 
thing,  except  the  consigne,  I  have  discovered  in  the  war 
zone.  We  went  across  the  square  to  the  Caf6  de  la 
Place,  where  we  had  ceufs  sur  le  plat,  a  yard  and  a  half 
of  thin,  crusty  bread,  a  thick  pat  of  yellow  butter,  and  a 
bottle  of  Chablis,  that  poured  out  pinky  into  our  glasses. 
After  which,  reinforced  and  most  cheerful,  we  went  to 
the  Place  du  Marche,  where  were  many  signs  of  the  cam- 
paign of  August  and  September,  19 14.  Among  debris 
of  bombarded  buildings  the  fruit-market  was  being 
held.  Plums,  peaches,  and  apricots  were  of  the  most 
delicious,  and  we  got  pounds  of  them,  which  later  were 
to  be  smashed  and  mashed  and  to  ruin  our  dressing- 
bags  and  our  clothes  and  the  motor  seats  as  we  bumped 
along.  It  all  came  from  Paris  except  the  tiny,  sweet, 
white  grapes. 

Epernay  seems  banal,  driving  through  it,  but  if  one 
thinks  a  bit,  all  sorts  of  things  flash  into  the  mind.  It 
has  a  Merovingian  past,  and  has  been  pillaged  innu- 
merable times  by  innumerable  hosts.  It  belonged  to  the 
Counts  of  Champagne,  to  Louise  of  Savoy;  Henry  IV 
lerieged  it  in  person,  and  Marechal  de  Biron  fell  by  his 
side.  Now  thinking  of  its  great  champagne  industry, 
into  mind  come  memories  of  dinner-tables  around  which 
sat  white-vested,  decorated  statesmen,  even  unto  the 
kind  that  did  not  prevent  war,  and  lovely  women, 
and  the  toss  of  repartee,  and  flash  of  jewel  and  white 
throat,  and  all  the  once-accustomed  things  no  longer 
ours. 

As  we  got  out  of  Epernay  a  terrible  temptation  as- 
sailed us.  Three  law-abiding  women,  by  reason  of 
original  sin,  I  suppose,  were  drawn  to  take  the  forbidden 
road  to  Reims — Reims,  the  scarred,  the  pitiful — Reims, 

114 


A    PROVIDENTIAL    FORD 

whose  cannon  sounded  even  now  in  our  ears — rather 
than  the  straight  path  of  duty  and  sauj -conduits  to 
Paris. 

"After  all,  we're  not  here  to  go  joy-riding  in  the  war 
zone,"  said  one,  virtuously;  and  then  prudence,  most 
dismal  of  virtues,  triumphed,  bolstered  up  by  a  look 
at  a  well-guarded  bridge,  and  I  told  the  inspiring  story 
of  the  principal  of  the  school  my  mother  went  to,  whose 
last  words  to  every  graduate  class  were,  "What  is  duty, 
young  ladies?"  And  the  young  ladies  were  expected  to 
respond,  "A  well-spring  in  the  soul."  It  isn't  (and 
never  has  been),  and  our  eyes  kept  sweeping  the  hill 
between  the  Epernay  road  and  that  great  plain  of  Cham- 
pagne in  the  midst  of  which  is  set  the  broken  jewel  of 
France.  A  military  auto  passed  as  we  stood  there,  and 
an  officer  waved  us  onward.  We  let  that  hand  pointing 
us  to  Paris  decide.  It  was  the  triumph  of  prudence — 
plus  a  lively  sense  of  favors  to  come.  Some  one  mut- 
tered, "Had  we  been  going  to  take  the  boat  on  Saturday, 
oh,  then  mayhap,  mayhap  ..." 

Dormans.  Several  kilometers  before  we  got  into  Dor- 
mans  little  crosses  began  to  show  themselves  along  the 
roadside.  All  through  here  was  heavy  fighting  during 
the  battle  of  the  Marne.  The  first  grave  we  stopped  by 
bore  on  its  little  cross  the  words,  "Trois  Allemands," 
and  it  was  neatly  fenced  up  with  black  sticks  and  wire. 
We  started  to  climb  the  hill,  and  among  the  malachite, 
the  beryl,  the  emerald,  the  jasper,  and  the  aquamarine 
vines  were  many  other  graves.  Sometimes  it  would  be 
"20  Frangais,"  the  red-and-white-and-blue  cocarde 
decorating  the  cross.  Once  it  was  "30  Allemands. " 
On  another  was  the  name  "Lastaud,  le  3  septembre, 
1 91 4,  souvenir  d'un  ami."  I  thought  how  friendship  has 
been  glorified  in  this  war. 

But  mostly  it  was  the  continuous  gorgeous  anonymity 

us 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

of  the  defenders  of  the  land  that  clutched  the  heart 
and  with  them  the  invaders,  pressing  their  bayonets 
and  their  wills  into  a  land  not  theirs.  I  was  once  more 
again  before  the  awful  tangle  of  the  world  as  I  looked- 
at  these  resting-places.  Over  beyond  the  crest  of  the 
hill  and  the  forest  was  Montmirail.  Just  a  hundred 
years  before,  Napoleon  had  put  these  names  upon  the 
scrolls  of  history,  and  again  and  then  again  they  had 
resounded  to  marching  feet,  the  terrors  of  invasion,  the 
heroisms  of  defense.  One  of  a  group  of  soldiers  passing 
called  out  as  we  stood  by  one  of  the  German  graves: 

"I  came  through  here  in  1914." 

"But  you  still  walk  the  earth,"  I  answered. 

"I  got  a  ball  in  the  hip,  all  the  same,  on  the  top  of 
that  hill,"  and  he  pointed  across  the  road.  "Mais  j'ai 
eu  de  la  chance"  And  a  look  of  a  strange  and  pitiful 
wonder  that  he  was  above  the  earth,  not  under  it, 
flashed  for  a  moment  over  his  young  face;  then  he 
touched  his  cap  and  went  singing  down  the  road  with 
his  companions,  and  I  caught  the  refrain,  "Ces  mots 
sacres,  ces  mots  sacr£s,  gloire  et  patrie,  gloire  et  patrie." 

And  somehow,  after  Dormans,  we  were  all  quiet.  I 
only  remember  long,  gray  villages,  mostly  eighteenth 
century,  and  many  blue  soldiers  walking  about  their 
broad,  central  streets,  and  signs  of  billetings,  "30 
hommes,  2  officiers,"  "5  hommes,  2  chevaux"  black-robed 
women  coming  out  of  little  Gothic  churches,  and  children 
playing,  and  in  between  the  villages  great  avenues  of 
poplar  and  plane  trees.  Then  we  lost  the  Marne  and 
picked  up  the  Seine,  and  passed  La  Ferte,  and  Meaux, 
seen  from  the  inside,  preserved  its  flavor  of  "autres  temps, 
autres  masurs"  in  spite  of  the  191 7  soldiers  billeted  there, 
walking  hand  in  hand  with  girls  who  don't  have  a  ghost 
of  a  chance,  in  military  towns,  to  get  through  the  war 
as  they  began  it. 

116 


A    PROVIDENTIAL    FORD 

Entered  Paris  in  a  fine  drizzle  of  rain  at  6.30.  Our 
charming  chauffeuse  dead  tired  after  the  long  day,  but 
steering  us  so  prudently  and  yet  so  quickly  through 
the  wet,  crowded  streets.  Give  me  a  good  woman 
chauffeur  any  day! — not  simply  when  coming  from  the 
front!  She  takes  no  chances,  but  she  makes  good  time 
and  she  gets  you  there.  But  somehow  one  leaves  one's 
heart  at  the  front,  and  I  thought  to  myself  as  I  got  to 
the  hotel  door,  "It's  not  so  good,  after  all,  to  feel  just 
safe  and  to  be  comfortable." 


PART    III 


LORRAINE   IN  AUTUMN 
"UGUgante  et  me'lancolique  Lorraine" 


CHAPTER   I 

NANCY   AND   MOLITOR 

i.jo  p.m.,  Tuesday,  October  gth. 

PASSING  Meaux.  Square  gray  tower  of  its  cathedral 
against  a  gray  sky,  the  gray  hemicycle  of  its  lovely 
apse  cutting  in  against  reddish-gray  roofs;  gray  houses 
with  old  towers  built  into  them;  yellowing  acacia  and 
plane  and  willow  trees;  level  corn-fields  stripped  of 
their  harvest,  pheasants  and  magpies  pecking  in  them; 
golden  pumpkins;  and  better aves  showing  red  and  ver- 
milion roots  bursting  out  of  the  ground;    everything 

wet — wet. 

Ligny-en-Barrois. 

Two  American  soldiers  walking  up  a  muddy  village 
street  in  the  dusk;  rain  falling;  a  cinnamon-colored 
stream  slipping  by;  and  a  quantity  of  shabby,  wet 
foliage  and  wetter  meadows. 

GONDRECOURT,  5.40. 

In  the  extreme  point  of  the  angle  where  the  Nancy 
train  seems  to  turn  back  to  Paris  and  where  many 
American  soldiers  are  billeted.  Cheerless,  dimly  lighted 
station.  Groups  of  our  men  standing  about,  high  piles 
of  United  States  boxes,  marked  "Wizard  Oats."  Some 
persuasion  of  black-frock-coated  "sky  pilot"  walking 
up  and  down  and  humming,  "Pull  for  the  shore,  sailor, 
pull  for  the  shore"  (there  was  a  lot  of  water  about!), 
and  then  in  the  darkness  the  train  slipped  out.     There 

121 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

and  in  all  the  dim,  wet  Lorraine  villages  about  are  damp, 
puzzled,  homesick,  forlorn,  brave,  determined,  eager 
young  Americans. 

H6tel  Excelsior  et  d'Angleterre, 

Nancy,  Tuesday  evening. 

Cabs  at  station,  hot  water,  writing-paper,  meat, 
warmth,  all  sorts  of  things  you  don't  always  get  on  Tues- 
day in  Paris.  Everything,  in  fact,  except  light.  Din- 
ing-room full  of  officers.  Chic  atmosphere  de  guerre  be- 
gan to  envelope  me,  not  yet  experienced  that  day. 
Started  from  Paris  tired  and  not  particularly  receptive, 
but  was  conscious  of  a  slow  quickening  of  sensibility  as 
the  hours  passed,  drawing  me  within  the  zone  of  armies. 

This  "chic  war  atmosphere"  is  like  nothing  else. 
Impersonal  and  larger  lungs  are  needed  to  breathe  it. 
We  no  longer,  so  many  of  us,  read  of  their  battles,  but 
they  still  fight  them,  these  blue-clad  men  out  here.  In 
the  coal-black  evening,  stumbling  from  the  station,  one 
realizes  it  all  once  more — and  there  is  some  lighting  of 
the  soul. 

October  10th. 

Nancy  in  rain  and  storm,  and  all  night  the  sound  of 
cannon  and  gun  and  mitrailleuse  turned  against  sweet 
flesh  and  blood,  the  sons  of  women  dying  in  agony  hard 
as  their  mother's  pain,  and  no  way  out.  Never  were  the 
imaginations  of  men  less  elastic;  little  groups  every- 
where are  hourly  setting  this  cold  grind  in  motion  with 
a  word  or  a  gesture,  around  green  tables  or  bending 
over  maps — in  a  few  small  spaces  deciding  the  agonies 
of  millions. 

An  avion  almost  tapped  at  my  window  once  toward 
morning  and  reminded  me  of  a  young  aviator  with 
whom  we  talked  in  the  train  last  night,  his  face  a-twitch, 
strange  eyes,  gloomy,  set  mouth,  once  jeunesse  dore"e. 
A  hard  look  as  he  answered : 

122 


NANCY    AND    MOLITOR 

"Avion  de  chasse,  il  riy  a  que  cela"  He  had  been 
"resting"  in  the  cavalry,  where  there  was  little  move- 
ment, and  he  couldn't  stand  it.     As  for  the  trenches — 

"0  les  tranches!  Eire  avec  des  gens  que  je  ne  connais 
pas,  sous  des  conditions  indescriptibles;  non,  je  n'en  peux 
plus." 

"Better  to  fall  from  the  heavens?"  I  asked  him. 

And  then  I  realized  the  disarray  of  nerves,  the  com- 
plete unfitting  of  the  being  to  an  earthly  habitat,  in  the 
knowledge  that  life  is  measured  by  an  almost  countable 
number  of  hours  or  days,  scarcely  weeks,  and  rarely, 
rarely  months,  and  the  calling  on  help  from  the  flower 
of  sleep  to  fit  one  for  acts  impossible  to  normal  being. 

I  must  say  this  very  evidently  "made-in-Germany" 
hotel  is  most  comfortable.  Jugend-Stil  designed  bed, 
exquisitely  clean ;  great  white  eiderdown ;  a  munificence 
of  brass  electric-light  fixtures  representing  leaves,  with 
frosted  shades  running  from  pale  pink  to  pale  green, 
and  giving  plenty  of  light;  the  iron  shutters  tightly 
pulled  down,  of  course.  Large  wash-stand  with  a  huge 
faucet  for  hot  water,  bearing  the  name  "Jacob";  the 
heating  apparatus  by  Ruckstuhl;  the  telephone,  "Ber- 
liner-system"; electric  light  and  lift  the  familiar 
"Schindler."  Wardrobe  and  mirror  over  wash-stand 
have,  like  the  bed,  a  design,  not  of  conventionalized 
flowers,  but  of  flowers  devoid  of  life.  The  inexpressibly 
sloppy  mollesse  of  art  nouveau  is  in  such  contrast  to  the 
beautiful  precision  of  touch  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

At  9.30  E.  M.came  into  my  room  and  said,  "We'd  bet- 
ter doll  up  and  be  off."  I  leave  it  to  the  gentlest  of 
readers  to  surmise  what  we  did  before  being  off,  and  I 
would  like  to  say  here  that  one  doesn't  always  "doll 
up"  for  others;  the  process  gives  to  one's  own  being  a 
sense  of  completeness  most  sustaining.  It  comes  after 
that  of  having  one's  clothes  put  on  properly. 

123 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

En  route  to  the  Prefect's  we  met  the  tall,  good-looking 
blond  young  son  of  Jean  de  Reszke,  "trds  chic,  cherchant 
le  danger" ;  "en  voila  un  qui  n'a  pas  froid  aux  yeux,"  the 
only  and  adored  child  of  his  parents.  It's  not  a  very 
promising  situation  for  them.  But  again  I  thought, 
"Nothing  but  good  can  befall  the  soldier,  so  he  play 
his  part  well,"  and  started  to  ponder  on  the  incalculable 
growth  of  filial  piety,  and  of  the  love  of  mothers,  and 
their  griefs,  when,  suddenly  walking  along  the  gray 
streets  of  Nancy,  the  scene  shifted,  and  it  was  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House  that  I  saw — the  lights,  the 
red  glow,  the  boxes,  the  jewels;  the  warmth,  the  stir 
of  the  orchestra,  the  quiet  of  the  listening  house,  were 
about  me.  It  seemed  to  be  the  second  act  of  "Tristan 
and  Isolde"  after  the  duo,  when  King  Mark  makes  his 
noble  entry  and  in  those  unforgetable  accents  begins 
his  broken-hearted  apostrophe  to  Tristan,  "Tatest  du's  in 
Wirklichkeit,  wahnst  du  das?"  And  all  that  unsur- 
passed and  unsurpassable  art  of  the  great  Polish  brothers 
was  again  evoked ;  one  now  gathered  to  his  rest  in  stress 
of  war,  the  other  knowing  a  greater  fear  than  for  him- 
self. 

Then  I  found  myself  in  the  Place  Stanislas  under 
gray  morning  skies,  instead  of  the  gleaming  twilight 
web.  I  felt  suddenly  and  acutely  the  turning  of  the 
seasons  and  the  inexorable  advent  of  winter  through 
which  unsheltered  flesh  and  blood  must  pass.  That 
ravishing  of  the  spirit  I  knew  in  the  warm  June  sunset 
was  mine  no  more. 

Later. 
Waiting  for  the  motor  to  drive  to  Lun6ville. 

Went  with  Madame  Mirman,  the  wife  of  the  Pre  jet 
de  la  Meurthe  et  Moselle,  to  visit  Molitor.  It  is  a  huge 
collection  of  barrack-buildings  which  for  three  years 
has  contained  that  terrible   precipitation  of   old  men, 

124 


SISTER   JULIE 


BAS-RELIEF    OF    THE    REFUGEES 

As  they  passed  at  Evian — but  typical  of  any  group  anywhere. 


NANCY    AND    MOLITOR 

women,  and  children  from  the  devastated  districts 
around  about.  They  are  received  in  every  conceivable 
condition  of  hunger,  dirt,  disease,  and  distress  of  soul. 
They  had  been  living  in  the  woods  and  fields  that  first 
summer,  and  the  children  running  the  streets  of  half- 
ruined  towns,  before  being  brought  to  Molitor. 

We  went  first  to  the  school-building,  and  into  the 
kindergarten  room  where  rows  of  children  were  making 
straight  lines  with  beans  on  little  tables.  Very  hot  and 
stuffy  in  the  hermetically  sealed  room,  every  child  snif- 
fling and  sneezing  and  coughing.  There  are  always 
faces  that  stand  out,  and  in  this  room,  as  the  children 
rose  and  sang  a  song  with  patting  of  the  hands,  there 
was  one  child  of  five  with  gestures  so  lovely  and  move- 
ments of  the  body  so  rhythmic  that  one  realized  afresh 
the  eternal  differences  in  the  seasoning  of  the  human 
pate.  She  was  between  two  clumsy,  wooden-faced  chil- 
dren, one  with  a  peaked  forehead,  the  other  with  a  heavy 
jaw. 

We  then  went  up-stairs  to  a  class-room  of  older  boys, 
and  after  we  had  spoken  to  the  schoolmaster  I  noticed 
a  handsome  boy  with  shining  eyes  and  a  firm  mouth. 
The  master,  who  was  new  and  wished  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  his  pupils,  had  written  the  following  ques- 
tions on  the  blackboard:  "Whence  do  you  come? 
What  was  the  occupation  of  your  parents?  Are  you 
happy  at  Molitor?"  etc.  Well,  that  little  boy  of  eleven, 
when  asked  what  he  had  written,  turned  out  to  be  a 
sort  of  cross  between  Demosthenes  and  Gambetta,  and 
read  from  his  slate  an  impassioned  apostrophe  about 
' '  le  fiot  envahisseur  des  barbares,  quand  de'livrera-t-on  la 
France  martyrisee  de  la  main  destructrice  de  I'ennemi?  " 
and  to  the  question,  "Are  you  happy  at  Molitor?"  the 
answer  was,  "Out,  on  est  bien  a  Molitor,  mais  rien  ne 
remplace  le  foyer;  quand  on  a  perdu  cela,  on  a  tout  perdu." 

125 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

The  face  of  the  master  showed  some  embarrassment 
at  any  restrictions  on  happiness  at  Molitor,  but  the 
boy,  whose  eyes  had  begun  to  flame,  continued:  "O 
quand  viendra  le  jour  de  la  Revanche,  le  jour  sacre  de  la 
de'livrance?"  and  wound  up  with  something  about  his 
blood  and  the  blood  of  his  children.  His  father,  who 
was  dead,  had  been  employed  in  the  customs  at  Avri- 
court,  and  his  mother  now  cooked  in  one  of  the  Molitor 
buildings.  Then  we  passed  through  a  room  where 
some  fifty  women  were  sorting  and  stemming  hops;  the 
strong,  warm  odor  enveloped  us  and  the  eyes  of  the 
women  followed  us. 

Then  out  across  the  immense  courtyard  to  one  of  the 
dormitory  buildings.  Rows  of  beds,  and  above  them, 
around  the  walls,  a  line  of  shelves  on  which  is  every 
kind  of  small  article  that  could  be  carried  in  flight,  from 
trimmings  for  Christmas  trees  to  shrines  and  little 
strong-boxes. 

As  we  entered  the  first  room,  Madame  Mirman  said 
to  an  old  woman  with  deep,  soft  eyes: 

"Comment  ca  va-t-il  aujourd'hui?" 

And  with  such  grace  she  answered: 

"Oh,  Madame,  c'est  la  vieillesse,  et  on  n'en  gue"rit  pas.1* 

Another  woman,  nursing  a  rheumatic  knee,  when 
asked  about  her  son,  who  had  been  at  Molitor  on  a 
three  days'  permission,  put  her  cracked  old  hand  over 
her  heart  and  said,  "Voir  un  peu  sa  personne fait  oublier 
tout:' 

In  all  the  big  rooms  near  the  long  windows  women 
sit  bent  over  embroidery  and  passementerie  frames. 
One  of  them,  with  thin  hair  and  horny  hands,  was  work- 
ing with  extreme  rapidity  on  a  bright  paillete  strip  for 
an  evening  gown,  a  design  of  silver  lilies  on  white  tulle, 
in  such  contrast  to  her  worn  face  and  bent  figure. 

Many    were    working    at    lovely    and    intricate    tea- 

T26 


NANCY    AND    MOLITOR 

cloths,  with  designs  of  the  Lorraine  cross,  and 
thistle,  oak  and  acorn  designs,  that  had  been  handed 
down  through  generations.  Some  of  the  work  Madame 
Mirman  is  able  to  dispose  of  directly,  while  some  is 
contracted  for  with  big  shops. 

When  we  came  down-stairs  there  was  a  great  sound 
of  young  feet  and  voices  and  various  noises  of  well- 
cared-for  children,  just  dismissed  from  the  seats  of 
learning,  coming  up  the  stone  stairway  to  their  dinner. 

It's  the  threading  up  of  all  these  destinies,  this  web 
of  the  France  to  be,  that  is  the  great  problem.  And 
oh,  how  terrible  is  this  uptearing  of  human  beings,  this 
ghastly  showing  of  the  roots!  I  have  seen  it  wholesale, 
east  and  west.  I  remember  especially  the  first  two 
evacuations  of  Czernowitz  and  the  adjacent  towns  and 
villages  during  the  Russian  advance  through  Galicia. 
They  would  flood  the  streets  of  Vienna  by  the  tens  of 
thousands,  in  pitiful  groups,  always  the  same — old  men, 
women,  and  children;  and  it's  all  alike,  it's  war,  the 
ruthless,  the  indescribable,  and  everywhere  the  children 
paying  most  heavily.  Could  the  war-book  of  children 
be  written  no  eyes  could  read  it  for  tears.  .  . :  .1 

We  went  back  to  luncheon  at  the  Prefecture,  where  I 
met  M.  Mirman,  one  of  the  most  striking  figures  of  the 
war.  Since  the  12th  of  August,  1914,  when  he  took 
up  his  duties  as  Prefet  de  la  Meurthe  et  Moselle,  his  hand- 
some, straight -featured  face  has  figured  at  every  gather- 
ing of  sorrow  or  relief.  As  he  sat  at  his  table,  surrounded 
by  his  six  children,  he  talked  of  those  first  days  when 
Nancy  was  in  danger  and  it  was  not  known  if  le  Grand 

1  During  the  closing  days  of  February,  1918,  the  air  raids  on  Nancy 
were  so  continuous  and  so  disastrous  that  Molitor  had  to  be  evacuated 
and  the  inmates,  the  aged  and  the  children,  were  redistributed  in  other 
parts  of  France.  These  words  are  quite  simple  to  write  and  to  read. 
Their  significance  is  beyond  expression. 

March,  1918,  E.  O'S. 
127 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

CouronnS  on  which  Castelnau  had  flung  his  paraphe 
could  protect  them,  and  then  he  told  of  many  urgent 
present  needs. 

After  lunch  we  drove  with  Madame  Mirman  to  her 
favorite  good  work,  I'ecolc  mcnagere. 

When  we  got  there  the  elementary  class,  girls  of  thir- 
teen to  fourteen,  were  chopping  herbs  and  onions  to 
make  seasoning  for  soups  in  winter,  and  putting  it  up 
iti  stone  pots.  Another  class  was  kneading  and  rolling 
out  dough.  Then  we  went  into  the  great  sewing-room 
and  turned  over  the  books  of  miniature  sample  pieces 
of  underclothing.  When  the  girls  become  expert  they 
are  given  material  and  make  their  own  trousseaux. 

With  a  sigh  Madame  Mirman  said:  "But  I  am  sad 
for  these  girls.  The  men  who  might  have  been  their 
husbands  lie  dead  on  the  field  of  honor,  and  there  will 
be  no  homes  for  them." 

Something  chill  and  inexorable  laid  its  hand  on  me  as 
I  thought :  only  graves,  and  they  leveled  out  of  memory 
by  time;  except  in  the  hearts  of  mothers,  to  whom  voir 
un  peu  sa  pcrsonne  is  the  supreme  joy,  and  the  knowl- 
edge that  it  can  be  no  more  the  supreme  sorrow. 

H6tel  des  Vosges,  Luneville,  11.30  p.m. 
A  long  day.  Many  pages  of  the  book  of  life  and 
death  turned.  Just  before  leaving  Nancy,  made  a  little 
tour  of  the  battered  station.  Scarcely  a  pane  of  glass 
left  anywhere,  but  in  and  out  of  it  is  the  ceaseless  move- 
ment of  blue-clad  men.  A  few  flecks  of  a  strange,  dull 
amber  in  a  pale-pink  sky,  the  true  sunset  sky  of  Nancy. 
A  bishop  with  a  military  cap  and  a  chaplain  in  khaki 
pass,  lines  of  camions  and  Red  Cross  ambulances.  Sud- 
denly, beyond  the  station,  a  dark-winged  thing  against 
the  sky  is  seen  to  drop,  right  itself  for  a  moment,  then 
a  column  of  smoke  goes  up  from  it,  then  a  flame,  then 

128 


NANCY    AND    MOLITOR 

there  is  a  falling  of  something  black  just  behind  the  twin 
Gothic  towers  of  St. -Leon.  The  streets  filled  instantly, 
"C'est  un  des  notres,"  said  a  man  with  field-glasses, 
and  then,  death  in  the  sky  not  being  unusual  here,  they 
went  about  their  business,  and  the  long,  delicate  towers 
of  St. -Leon  got  black  as  ink  against  the  flaming  sky. 
But  a  man's  soul  was  being  breathed  out  in  some  dis- 
tant beet-root  field  or  in  the  forest  of  Haye.  Peace  to 
him! 

The  next  thing  I  saw,  that  has  become  a  familiar  sight 
in  the  last  months,  was  an  American  soldier  on  some  sort 
of  permission,  and  hanging  from  his  arm,  neatly  bound, 
was  a  pretty  little  "dictionary" — from  whom,  however, 
came  sounds  of  broken  English.  The  British  Expedi- 
tionary Force  saved  the  classics  from  destruction  at  one 
time;  now  "salvage"  seems  to  be  rather  the  turn  of 
the  American  forces.  One  can  only  philosophize  on  the 
indestructibility  of  matter. 

The  Place  Stanislas  was  a  bit  out  of  our  way,  but  when 
I  saw  the  lovely  Louis  XV  knots  of  pink  that  the  orb 
of  day  was  tying  in  the  sky  before  he  quite  departed 
I  begged  for  three  minutes  in  its  pale  loveliness.  Against 
the  delicate  ribbons  of  the  sky  were  urns  and  figures, 
urns  with  stone  flames  arising  from  them,  softly  glowing, 
or  stone  flower- twisted  torches  held  by  winged  beings, 
children  and  youths  or  angels  I  knew  not — but  I  did 
know  in  a  flash  just  how  and  why  the  Place  Stanislas 
came  into  being. 

In  the  gray  streets  were  blue-clad,  heavily  laden  men, 
and  the  chill  autumn  twilight  was  falling  about  them. 
Oh,  Nancy!  dream  of  the  past  and  yet  with  so  much 
of  the  hope  of  the  present  within  your  gates ! 

As  we  sped  out  of  town,  through  the  vast  manufactur- 
ing suburbs,  I  turned  and  saw  a  bank  of  orange  glory 
in  the  west,  cut  into  browns  and  reds,  with  little  thread- 

129 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

ings  of  gray  and  green  and  blue,  for  all  the  world  like 
an  ancient  Cashmere  shawl  with  light  thrown  on  it. 

Night  was  falling  as  we  passed  through  St. -Nicolas  du 
Port.  The  two  immense  towers  of  the  church,  which 
dominate  the  landscape,  were  cutting  black  and  cypress- 
like into  the  sky.  The  streets  were  full  of  dim  figures — 
soldiers,  overalled  men,  and  many  trousered  women 
coming  from  munition-factories,  with  baskets  and  cling- 
ing children,  hurrying  home  to  get  the  evening  meal. 

We  two  American  women  found  ourselves  threading 
our  way  through  it  all  in  a  Ford  which  E.  M.  was 
driving  herself,  the  Ford  which  in  the  afternoon  had 
allowed  itself  caprices  only  permissible  to  lovelier  ob- 
jects, and  there,  close  behind  the  French  lines,  we  talked 
of  love  and  marriage,  and  the  Church.  And  these  things 
had  been  and  are  for  one,  and  for  the  other  all  to  come. 

Among  its  various  imperfections,  the  Ford  was  one- 
eyed,  and  our  little  light  did  not  cast  its  beams  very  far. 
We  got  tangled  up  into  a  long  line  of  camions,  with 
blinding  headlights,  quite  extinguishing  us  as  we  hugged 
the  right  side  of  the  road.  Finally  we  reached  the  out- 
post of  Luneville,  where  the  guard  stopped  us,  dark  and 
disreputable-looking  as  we  were,  flashed  his  lantern, 
saw  the  lettering  on  the  auto.  We  cried,  "Vitrimont," 
and  then  passed  on.  The  chill  night  had  completely 
fallen,  but  in  the  dark  fields  rose  darker  crosses  that 
only  one's  soul  could  see.  Peace  to  them  that  lie  be- 
neath ! 

Into  town  safe;  drew  up  at  the  door  of  the  house 
that  was  once  an  old  Capuchin  monastery,  groped  our 
way  through  a  dark  garden  to  find  a  warm  welcome  from 
Mademoiselle  Guerin,  a  shining  tea-table,  an  open  fire, 
many  books*    things  seemed  too  well  with  us. 


CHAPTER   II 

EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY    EMANATIONS 

October  nth,  7.30. 

AWAKENED  at  five  o'clock  to  the  sound  of  cavalry 
l  passing  under  my  windows.  I  have  three,  and 
got  the  full  benefit  of  the  hoofs.  I  looked  out  into  a 
bluish,  late-night  sky;  endless  shadowy  lines  of  men 
that  I  knew  were  blue-clad  were  defiling,  and  there  was 
a  faint  booming  of  cannon.  Everything  that  the  pitchy 
blackness  of  the  streets  of  Luneville  prevents  the  in- 
habitants from  doing  between  5  and  8  p.m.  they  do  be- 
tween 5  and  8  a.m.  The  hour  was  set  back  on  the  7th, 
which  is  why  we  have  suddenly  so  much  morning  and 
these  chopped-off  afternoons.  It  makes  the  streets  of 
the  old  town  "hum"  in  the  early  hours.  No  Taubes; 
the  sky  too  threatening.    Again  chic  atmosphere  de  guerre. 

My  big  room  is  charming.  The  doors  have  panelings 
of  the  great  epoch  of  Luneville,  but  on  the  walls  is  a 
fresh  papering  of  a  pinkish  toile  de  Jouy  design,  in  such 
good  taste,  an  abyss  between  it  and  the  Jugend-Stil  of 
the  "Hotel  Excelsior  et  d'Angleterre";  over  each  door 
is  a  lunette  containing  a  faded  old  painting. 

The  pink-curtained  windows  have  deep  embrasures; 
a  fresh,  thick,  pale-gray  carpet  quite  covers  the  floor; 
on  the  mantelpiece  is  a  bronze  clock,  a  large  Europa 
sitting  on  a  small  bull.  I  suspect  it  is  1830.  In  one 
corner  a  commodious  Louis  XV  armoire.     On  one  of 

131 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

its  doors  is  carved  a  peasant's  house  and  a  hunter  aim- 
ing at  a  deer  half-hidden  in  some  trees.  On  the  other 
is  a  fishing  scene  and  a  bridge,  and  in  the  distance  a 
chateau.  The  panels  are  inclosed  in  charming  Pompa- 
dour scrolls,  and  there  is  an  elaborate  wrought-iron 
lock  of  the  same  period.  It  seemed  to  epitomize  the 
life  of  Lorraine,  as  well  as  "the  reign  of  the  arts  and 
talents."  Discovered  last  night  that  the  electric  light 
is  in  the  right  place,  so  that  a  lady  can  dress  for  dinner 
or  read  in  bed  with  equal  facility.  There  is  all  the  hot 
water  one  could  wish,  an  open  fireplace,  but  it  was  with 
a  sigh  that  I  said,  as  I  heard  the  cannon,  "Rien  ne 
manque."  The  maid,  who  had  been  in  England,  put 
our  things  out  last  night  with  a  dainty  touch,  the  rib- 
bons on  top;  my  pink  satin  neglige  was  placed  with 
art  across  the  chair  by  my  bed.  In  E.  M.'s  room, 
equally  comfortable,  her  pale-blue  one  was  also  taste- 
fully displayed.  Somehow,  all  the  physical  comfort  is 
so  insistently  in  contrast  with  what  is  being  gone  through 
with  a  few  kilometers  away,  and  though  my  soul  can 
be  supremely  content  without  any  of  it,  I  looked  for 
the  moment  with  a  new  appreciation  on  this  flicker  of 
comfort  behind  that  dreadful  front. 

Again  we  groped  through  the  Place  Leopold  after  din- 
ner at  Mile.  Guerin's,  feeling  our  way  slowly  under  com- 
pletely remote  stars,  Jupiter  so  gorgeous  that  for  a  mo- 
ment my  heart  was  afraid.  Then  I  became  sensible  of 
ghostly  and  lovely  companions,  the  amiable  secrets  of 
whose  amiable  lives  have  been  revealed  to  me  in  many 
a  tome  since  I  crossed  that  square  in  those  linden- 
scented  nights  of  June.  Did  linden  scent,  on  which  a 
long  chapter  could  be  written,  have  anything  to  do  with 
their  morals,  I  wonder?  However  that  may  be,  I 
thought  of  Duke  Leopold  going  from  the  chateau  through 
the  park  to  the  house  in  the  rue  de  Lorraine  to  see  the 

132 


EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   EMANATIONS 

Princesse  de  Craon,  who  bore  twenty  children  here  in 
Luneville,  preserving  her  beauty  and  her  husband's 
love,  and  that  of  Duke  Leopold  as  well,  evidently  having 
the  secret  of  squaring  the  circle  without  breaking  it 
(unknown  in  the  twentieth  century,  when  everything 
"goes  bang"  if  it  is  but  breathed  upon).  Then  of  the 
wild  and  witty  Chevalier  de  Boufflers,  painting  and 
making  verses,  loving  and  forgetting,  whose  mother, 
beloved  of  "Stanislas,  Roi  de  Pologne  et  Due  de  Lorraine 
et  de  Bar,"  was  the  bright  particular  star  of  Stanislas's 
Court,  as  his  grandmother  had  been  of  Leopold's.  And 
how  often  La  divine  Emilie  and  Voltaire  passed  through 
the  Place  Leopold  in  their  coach  to  be  put  up  at  the 
Palace  and  contribute  to  the  gaiety  of  nations.  They 
and  many  others  filled  the  square,  and  I  was  thinking 
of  discreet  sedan-chairs  coming  from  rendezvous  rather 
than  of  the  uncompromised  and  uncompromising  lamp- 
post that  finally  got  me,  minus  the  light. 

Now  I  quite  dislike  getting  up  from  this  literally 
downy  couch,  with  its  dainty  pink-lined,  lace-trimmed, 
white-muslin  covered  eiderdown  and  its  heaps  of  soft 
pillows,  to  investigate  further  their  amours,  and  in 
general  the  arts  et  talents  of  the  eighteenth  century,  but 
so  I  willed  it,  and  so  it  must  be  done.  For  some  reason 
nervous  energy  is  at  a  low  ebb.  There  are  moments 
when  I  throw  my  life  out  of  the  window,  when  nothing 
seems  impossible  and  most  things  quite  easy,  but  to-day 
the  gray  world  outside,  V elegante  et  me'lancolique  Lorraine, 
I  would  consider  well  lost  for  converse  with  a  beloved 
friend  by  my  fireside. 

October  12th,. 

Nothing  to  be  found  in  Luneville  on  an  October  night 

except  your  soul,  and  if  you  don't  keep  it  fairly  bright, 

you  won't  find  even  that.     Oh,  woe  is  me!    about  six 

o'clock  mine  was  suddenly  too  dark  and  sad  for  words, 

10  i33 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

so  I  betook  me  to  the  downy  couch  of  the  morning, 
with  a  batch  of  letters  and  various  books  given  me  by 
M.  Guerin  at  lunch,  some  old,  some  new,  concern- 
ing VeUgante  et  wie'lancolique  Lorraine.  The  Hotel  des 
Vosges  is  ahead  of  any  Ritz  that  was  ever  built,  and, 
what's  more,  in  it  your  soul's  your  own,  even  if  it  is 
a  poor  and  dark  and  trembling  thing. 

My  "Symphonie  Pastorale"  letter  to  returned 

to  me.  Have  just  reread  it  and  pinned  it  into  the 
Journal.     It's  all  part  of  the  same. 

Aix-les-Bains,  vendredi,  27  aoM,  1917. 

.  .  .  The  orchestra,  pale,  emasculated,  having  the  mini- 
mum of  strings — the  musicians  of  France  are  dead  or 
in  the  trenches — seemed  without  accent  during  the  first 
part  of  the  program.  "La  Chasse  du  Jeune  Henri"  of 
Mehul,  "Les  Eolides"  of  Cesar  Franck,  something  of 
Gretry,  Dukas,  Saint-Saens,  en  fin,  one  of  the  usual  war- 
time programs.  But  then  followed  the  "Symphonie 
Pastorale"  and  the  master's  voice  suddenly  swelled  the 
thin  sounds,  triumphant  in  the  beauty  of  his  order  and 
splendor. 

A. — {Sensations  agreables  en  arrivant  a  la  Campagne. 
AlUgro  ma  non  troppo.)  I  felt  myself  invaded  by  a 
familiar  but  long-untasted  delight  as  my  ear  received  the 
gorgeous  consonances,  and  the  lovely  theme  of  the  vio- 
lins drew  me  to  an  interior  place.  My  fancy  was  set 
a-wandering  in  a  world  of  green  glades,  and  broad 
meadows  covered  with  asphodel  and  belladonna  and 
fringed  by  dark  plantings  of  pines,  such  as  the  master 
had  wandered  in,  and  "upon  my  eyes  there  lay  a  tear 
the  dream  had  loosened  from  my  brain."  In  deep 
serenity  I  found  myself  thinking  on  appearances  of 
"things  wise  and  fair,"  feeling  myself  in  some  way  in- 
cluded in  a  company  of  paradisaical  beings. 

i34 


EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   EMANATIONS 

Suddenly  an  almost  unbearable  spiritual  exasperation 
succeeded  the  delight,  and  I  saw  a  scarred  and  dreadful 
scene,  like  to  the  lunar  landscape  of  the  battle-field  of 
Verdun,  and  I  knew  that  my  dwelling-place  was  a  world 
of  blood-madness.  I  tried  to  beat  off  the  invading  hor- 
ror. Hot  tears  of  protest  came  to  my  eyes,  a  feeling 
of  suffocation  clutched  my  throat,  and  a  something 
burning  wrapped  my  soul.     Delight  was  dead. 

B. — {An  bord  du  Ruisseau.  Andante  molto  moto.) 
The  master  spoke  again,  in  a  voice  of  purling  water  over 
smooth  stones  and  through  soft  grasses;  the  music  of 
the  lower  strings,  monotonous,  hypnotic,  possessed  my 
fancy.  Again  the  joy  with  which  he  was  looking  on  the 
beauty  of  the  exterior  world  tried  to  communicate  it- 
self to  me.  But  my  eyes  fell  on  a  white-haired  man 
seated  near  me,  a  black  band  about  his  arm,  dozing  or 
dreaming,  I  knew  not  which.  He  awakened  with  a 
start  and  groan,  and  was  doubtless  thinking  on  combat 
and  empty  places  and  "heroes  struggling  with  heroes 
and  above  them  the  wrathful  gods." 

And  I  thought  of  Veiled  Destinies  and  high  and  name- 
less sacrifices  and  children  at  evening  and  silent  fire- 
sides, and  broken  loves  and  other  visible  and  invisible 
things. 

C. — (J  oyeuse  reunion  de  Pay  sans.  Allegro.)  Express- 
ing the  master's  deep  belief  in  the  goodness  of  human- 
ity, its  deathless  adorations,  its  inextinguishable  hopes. 

But  the  houses  of  the  peasants  are  empty,  even  here 
in  Savoy,  and  husbands  and  fathers  and  sons  will  cross 
their  thresholds  no  more.  "The  ancients  have  ceased 
from  the  gates,  the  young  men  from  the  choir  of  the 
singers." 

I  sat  by  the  stream  among  the  peasants  and  remem- 
bered suddenly  two  combatants,  an  Austrian  and  a 
Serb,  visited  in  a  hospital  in  Vienna  that  first  winter  of 

i35 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

the  war.  One  had  lain  by  a  frozen  brook  across  a  fallen 
log  for  two  days,  his  hands  and  feet  alone  touching  the 
ground,  and  when  he  was  brought  in  they  were  black 
and  swollen,  and  as  I  saw  him  he  was  but  a  trunk  of  a 
man  with  dull  eyes.  And  the  other,  the  Serb,  with 
something  wild  and  burning  in  his  look,  and  restless 
hands,  had  fallen  with  his  feet  in  a  stream,  and  he,  too, 
would  walk  no  more;  and  so  one  thinks  of  brooks  and 
sweet,  moving  waters  these  days. 

(Or age — Tempete.  Allegro.)  The  sudden  D  flat,  the 
world  in  noise  and  horror  and  protesting  hate,  and  hard, 
bright-eyed  men  meeting  from  East  and  West,  the  sons 
of  the  world  falling  for  the  sins  of  the  world;  and 
there  is  no  way  out,  for  all  words  save  that  of  peace 
may  be  spoken.  And  I  thought  on  the  loneliness  of  the 
mind,  and  knew  it  for  as  great  or  greater  than  that 
of  the  heart,  for  mostly  humanity  lives  by  its  personal 
throbs,  its  desires  and  its  hopes  and  fears,  and  these 
are  of  such  abundance  that  there  are  always  contacts. 
But  the  loneliness  of  the  mind  is  a  world  where  there  is 
scarcely  any  sound  of  footsteps,  few  voices  call,  and 
sometimes  it  is  deathly  cold,  and  that  is  why  I  write  to 
you  to-night. 

I  listened  again.  (Joie  et  sentiments  de  reconnaissance 
apris  Vorage.  Allegretto.)  And  I  suddenly  realized  how 
unsubstantial,  for  all  their  thickness,  are  the  towers 
wherein  each  dwells  isolated  from  some  near  happiness, 
shut  off  from  some  close  beatitude,  that  for  a  dissolving 
touch  might  be  his  own.  And  I  found  that  the  com- 
pleted harmonies  of  the  lovely  finale,  "Herr,  wir  danken 
Dir,"  were  seeking  my  mortal  ear,  and  my  soul  was  being 
regained  to  tranquillity.  My  mind  was  turned  from  un- 
timely vanishings,  or  the  despair  of  men  of  middle  life 
who  go  up  to  battle,  and  from  all  the  company  of  those 
who  "have  wrapped  about  themselves  the  blue-black 

136 


EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   EMANATIONS 

cloud  of  death,"  and  I  saw  again  visions,  felicities,  pro- 
gressions, accomplishments.  Then,  not  bearing  less 
beneficent  harmonies,  I  went  out,  and  Hope,  with 
lovely,  veiled,  outcast,  undesired  Peace,  accompanied 
me  through  the  warm  Savoyan  night.  But  they  left 
me  at  the  door  of  my  dwelling,  as  the  one-armed  con- 
cierge saluted  me,  and  the  one-legged  lift -man  (symbols 
of  my  real  world)  took  me  up-stairs.  Now  I  am  alone 
with  thoughts  of  him  who  gave  to  melody  its  eternal 
fashion  and  to  music  itself  its  furthest  soul,  and  would 
that  you  had  listened  with  me !  .  .  .  You  who  will  not, 
Peace!  .  .  . 

M.  Guerin's  book-loving,  artistic,  perceptive  son,  en 
permission,  with  a  dreadful  cold,  was  at  lunch,  Colonel 

,  and  several  other  men.     Mr.  G.,  whose  family  have 

been  part  owners  of  the  Luneville  porcelain-factories  for 
one  hundred  and  fifty  years,  is  charming,  erudite,  and 
afterward,  over  our  coffee  by  his  library  fire,  we  talked 
politics  and  literature  and  music.  I  had  just  been  read- 
ing Madame  de  StaeTs  De  VAllcmagnc,  not  at  all  in 
favor  just  now,  which  I  had  picked  up  on  her  cen- 
tenary. 

"Une  exaltee,"  said  one  of  the  officers. 

"That  is  not  enough  to  say  of  one  who  always  had 
the  courage  of  her  convictions,"  I  answered,  and  recalled 
the  conversation  between  her  and  Benjamin  Constant 
when  under  the  Consulate  he  threw  himself  into  the 
opposition. 

"Voila"  he  said,  "voire  salon  rempli  de  personnes  qui 
vous  plaisent;  si  je  parle  demain,  il  sera  desert;  pensez-y. ' '  l 

And  she  answered,   llIl  faut  suivre  sa  conviction." 

"She  certainly  followed  out  her  convictions;  but  what 

1  She  received  ten  refusals  for  the  dinner  she  was  giving  the  next  night; 
among  them  one  from  Talleyrand,  which  caused  a  permanent  rupture  in 
their  relations. 

137 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

did  Madame  de  Stael  know  of  the  Germans?"  pursued 
the  colonel.  "She  saw  them  in  the  quite  factitious 
setting  of  the  Weimar  Court,  and  was  intoxicated  by 
the  play  of  mind.  Those  beaux  e sprits  presented  the 
character  and  the  future  of  their  race,  through  rose- 
colored  clouds  of  Romanticism,  to  one  of  the  most 
charming  and  gifted  women  another  race  had  ever  pro- 
duced, et  puis  elle  rentre  et  elle  6crit  de  V Allemagne! 
Cela  serait  comique  si  ce  rietait  pas  si  triste." 

"Don't  you  think  both  sides  played  up,"  I  asked, 
"at  those  Weimar  suppers?  She  was  under  the  charm 
of  philosophers  and  musicians,  and  they  under  the 
charm  of  her  wit  and  appreciation.  I  keep  thinking 
how  they  all  enjoyed  it — and  how  those  black  eyes 
flashed  under  the  heavy  red-and-gold  turban." 

"Without  doubt  it  was  more  than  agreeable.  I  only 
complain  that  she  was  in  a  position  to  mislead  succeed- 
ing generations,  and  did  so.  She  seems  to  have  had  no 
flair,  and  because  she  got  the  personal  enthusiasm,  the 
hot  striking  of  mind  against  mind,  that  was  at  once  her 
gift  and  her  delight,  she  glorifies  a  nation  that  later 
makes  furious  attempts  to  destroy  hers." 

I  then  remarked,  but  a  bit  warily:  "Talking  of 
centenaries,  I  have  just  had  in  my  hands  the  discourse 
of  Wagner  on  the  centenary  of  Beethoven.     It  has  fire." 

"We  won't  talk  of  Wagner,  the  mere  memory  of  a 
phrase  scorches  one's  ear.  Beethoven,  yes,  for  all  time, 
but  we  French  can't  listen  to  Wagner  now.  He's  like 
a  hot  iron  on  seared  flesh — or  a  rake  in  a  wound.  We 
want  nothing  more  to  do  with  the  Lohengrins  and  the 
Tannhausers  and  the  Siegfrieds.  I  only  wish  they  had 
been  annihilated  with  their  Walhalla." 

"These  beings,  however,  were  potential  in  the  Ger- 
man race.  Madame  de  Stael  got  their  projections,  to- 
gether with  the  metaphysics  of  Goethe  and  his  con- 

138 


EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  EMANATIONS 

temporaries,  and  carried  away  with  her  the  memory  of 
a  blue-eyed  people  lost  in  metaphysical  dreams,  passion- 
ately loving  poetry  and  music." 

"Yes,  and  presented  them  to  us  as  an  example  of  all 
the  social  virtues.  Look  at  history,"  said  another  officer, 
with  a  gesture  toward  the  east. 

One  can  talk  of  other  things  besides  the  booming  of 
cannon,  even  in  Luneville  —  but  not  with  complete 
pleasure. 

Then  E.  M.  and  I  departed  to  take  a  tournee  about 
the  country.  But  the  Ford  reposing  in  the  Guerins' 
garage  was  completely  unresponsive ;  it  might  have  been 
dead.  It  appears  it  hates  cold  weather.  A  dozen 
officers  are  billeted  in  the  Guerins'  house;  two  of 
their  orderlies  and  the  butler  tried  to  crank  it.  The 
only  signs  of  life  were  in  the  handle,  which  from  time 
to  time  flew  round  with  extraordinary  rapidity.  We 
called  out  to  one  not-over-cautious  soldier,  "Be  careful; 
you  will  break  your  arm." 

He  only  answered: 

"If  that  happens  I  shall  have  two  or  three  months 
of  tranquillity."  And  that's  how  he  felt  anent  the 
breaking  of  his  arm! 

At  last  we  found  ourselves  on  the  road  bounded  by 
the  meadows  of  the  silent  crosses,  skirting  the  hill  of 
Leomont,  with  its  great  scars  of  19 14  shell-holes,  be- 
neath which  is  a  little  village  with  the  strange  name  of 
Anthelupt.  The  Romans  were  all  about  here  and  it 
was  once  "Antelucus"  (before  the  sacred  grove),  and 
afterward  was,  a  dependence  of  the  priory  of  L6omont 
built  on  the  site  of  the  ancient  temple  to  the  moon. 
Then  we  found  ourselves  on  the  broad  ridge  of  road  lead- 
ing to  Crevic.  Great  stretches  of  Lorraine,  Velegante 
et  melancolique  Lorraine,  were  flung  out  before  us  under 
rain-clouds  and  sunbursts — lovely  stretches,  with  fields 

i39 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

of  mustard  greedy  for  the  light,  blowing  patches  of 
red-stemmed  osier,  and  everywhere  fields  of  beet-root 
in  which  women  and  old  men  and  little  children  were 
working,  piling  high  red-white  mounds  or  separating 
the  wilted  leaves  into  greenish-yellow  piles. 

Crevic  is  shot  to  bits.  Of  the  chateau  of  General 
Lyautey  *  but  a  few  crumbling  walls  remain.  Though 
the  piles  of  stones  and  mortar  are  covered  with  the 
green  of  three  summers'  growth,  still  the  cannon  are 
booming  to  the  east  and  north.  The  perfectly  banal 
church  is  intact.  People  were  walking  about  the  streets 
and  improvised  roofs  cover  some  sort  of  homes,  and 
there  seemed  many  very  little  children.  We  passed  out 
over  an  old  bridge  in  a  dazzling  sunburst,  while  a  great 
curtain  of  rain  hung  to  the  west  near  Dombasle,  the 
smoke-columns  of  whose  hundred  chimneys  caught  and 
held  and  reflected  the  gorgeous  afternoon  light,  and 
there  were  other  great  stretches  of  unspeakable  beauty, 
soft,  rolling,  and  radiant — crying  out  about  the  genera- 
tions that  have  bent  over  them. 

The  great  village  of  Haraucourt  has  a  lovely  de- 
stroyed church  of  pure  Gothic  that  workmen  are  at  last 
roofing  over;  but  three  winters  have  already  passed 
over  its  beauty,  unsheltered  and  unguarded.  We  go 
out  through  the  village  in  the  direction  of  Dombasle, 
and  suddenly  against  some  gorgeous  masses  of  clouds 
we  see  an  avion  de  chasse,  "type  Nieuport,"  as  E.  M., 
who  has  ample  reason  to  be  expert  in  things  aerial,  tells 
me.  There  is  a  moment  when  it  is  a  great  silver  brooch 
pinning  two  gray  velvety  curtains  together,  where  a 
ray  of  blinding  light  falls.  Then  it  makes  a  series  of 
marvelous  vrilles,  and  I  say  to  her,  "How  can  men  who 
do  that  love  finite  woman?"  A  great  observation 
balloon,  saucisse,  hung  in  the  sky,  and  another  broad 

'Governor-General  of  Morocco. 
140 


EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY   EMANATIONS 

shait  of  light  lay  on  the  far  hills  behind  which  lie  in- 
trenched gray-clad  men  with  pointed  helmets. 

At  this  moment  a  panne.  The  only  thing  in  sight  is 
a  long  line  of  war-supply  wagons  drawn  by  tired  horses, 
and  women  and  old  men  and  children  bending  over  their 
eternal  piles  of  beet-root.  But  E.  M.  said,  "Sooner 
than  change  that  tire,  I'll  bury  the  Ford  by  the  road." 
So  we  bumped  and  crawled  along  till  we  met  a  line  of 
camions.  The  first  was  driven  by  a  handsome,  tall, 
very  small-handed,  extremely  polite  Frenchman,  who 
knew  Fords,  having  been  four  months  with  Piatt  Andrew 
at  the  Field  Service  Ambulance  in  the  rue  Raynouard, 
and  who  agreed  to  change  it  for  us. 

A  hail-storm,  like  a  pelting  of  diamonds,  as  sudden 
bursts  of  light  caught  it,  came  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
operation,  which  was  finally  completed  with  expressions 
of  mutual  satisfaction.  The  shining  storm  was  with- 
drawn like  a  curtain,  showing  the  sun  on  the  great 
stretches,  and  Dombasle  with  the  smoke  of  its  hundred 
chimneys  was  a  thing  of  inexpressible  beauty,  while  be- 
hind it  were  the  great  towers  of  St. -Nicolas  du  Port, 
for  which  we  decided  to  make  a  dash.  We  got  into  it, 
through  Dombasle,  as  a  perfect  rainbow  rose  from  the 
Meurthe  and  disappeared  into  the  horizon,  where  the 
gray-clad  men  with  the  pointed  helmets  are  in- 
trenched. 

"For  luck,"  said  E.  M. 

But  I  asked,  "Whose  luck?"  the  rainbow  evidently 
being  neutral. 

We  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  anything  but  the 
towers  of  the  church.  There  is  no  square  in  front; 
tiny  streets  encircle  it  on  all  sides.  But  we  at  last  got 
into  the  narrow  street  in  front  of  the  cathedral,  which 
is  called  llDes  Trots  Pucelles"  in  memory  of  the  three 
young  girls  to  whom  St. -Nicolas  gave  a  dot.     I  was  not 

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MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

alone  in  remembering  that  he  is  the  patron  saint  of 
those  contemplating  matrimony. 

The  church  is  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries, 
and  among  the  largest  of  the  Gothic  churches  of  Lorraine. 
Swelling-breasted  pigeons  with  gorgeous  pink  and  red 
and  green  and  purple  upon  their  throats  were  nestled 
against  the  beautiful  carvings  of  the  gray  portals,  and 
much  soft  cooing  was  going  on.  Above  the  central 
door,  in  the  trumeau,  is  a  statue  of  the  saint  said  to 
have  been  done  by  the  brother  of  Ligier  Richier,  and  I 
thought  of  the  lovely  Gothic  fireplace  by  Ligier  Richier 
himself  taken  from  St.-Mihiel,  and  now  at  Ochre  Court 
in  Newport. 

Noble  interior,  though  the  pillars  have  had  the  beau- 
tiful sharpness  of  their  chiseling  blunted  by  much  paint- 
ing and  whitewashing.  There  are  remains  of  early 
frescoes  on  some  of  the  croisillons,  and  near  a  door  I 
found  a  tiny,  ancient  painting  representing  scenes  in 
the  life  of  St. -Nicolas,  inclosed  in  glass  in  a  modern 
varnished  wooden  frame.  Somewhere  in  the  pavement 
of  the  church  is  a  certain  potent  slab,  and  she  who  steps 
upon  it  is  married  within  the  year.  Its  exact  position 
is  not  known,  but  I  told  E.  M.  to  take  an  exhaustive 
walk  about  and  commend  herself  to  heaven  and  the 
saint. 

When  we  came  out  into  the  ancient  streets  the  western 
sky  was  aflame  and  there  were  translucent  pale  greens 
ahead  of  us,  We  turned  again  toward  the  open  road  and 
Dombasle,  named  after  a  monk  of  the  fifth  century. 
Hermits  brought  the  first  civilization  to  these  forests, 
followed  by  the  great  bishops  and  the  builder-monks, 
who  constructed  the  immense  abbeys  and  the  churches 
of  Lorraine.  Dombasle  from  some  mysterious  wilder- 
ness had  become  what  I  saw  it  that  afternoon.  From 
the  chimneys  of  its  munition-factories,  against  the  am- 

142 


EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY  EMANATIONS 

ber  sky,  there  poured  and  twisted  a  wonder  of  gray  and 
white  and  deep  brown  and  violet  smoke.  The  darken- 
ing, soot-blackened  streets  were  overflowing  with  hu- 
man energies  spilling  themselves  into  the  greedy  war- 
machine.  There  are  vast  monotonous  workingmen's 
quarters,  and  everywhere  children,  little  children,  being 
trampled  in  the  wine-press.  .  .  . 

It  was  dark  when  we  drew  up  in  front  of  the  house  of 
the  maire,  Mr.  Keller,  the  celebrated  house  where  the 
Prince  de  Beauvau  was  born,  where  the  beautiful 
Princesse  de  Craon  had  most  of  the  twenty  children, 
where  the  Treaty  of  Luneville  was  signed  in  1801,  and 
where,  in  19 14,  the  maire  lodged  the  generals  of  the 
German  army.  Madame  was  still  at  her  hospital,  so 
we  left  our  cards  and  came  back  to  the  hotel. 

Now  I  must  leave  the  almost  Capuan  delights  of  this 
pleasant  room  to  motor  a  hundred  kilometers.  Nancy, 
Toul,  the  antique  Tullum,  and  back,  is  the  program. 
It's  raining,  it's  hailing,  it's  blowing,  but  I  bethink  me 
of  St.-Mansuy  and  St.-Epvre,  the  great  Bishop  of  Toul, 
and  those  other  saints,  St.-Eucarius  and  St. -Loup,  start- 
ing out  in  all  kinds  of  weather,  and  of  the  ceuvre  that  we 
are  to  visit,  founded  last  summer  for  children  gathered 
in  191 7  from  villages  where  there  had  been  bad  gas 
attacks.  The  history  of  Lorraine  piles  high  about  me — 
the  cannon  boom.  What  a  day  to  lie  with  your  life's 
blood  flowing  from  you  in  wet  beet-root  fields.  .  .  . 
The  motor  horn  sounds. 


CHAPTER   III 

TOUL 

October  ijth. 

WE  lunched  at  the  Cafe  Stanislas  yesterday  after 
the  wildest  of  drives  into  Nancy,  the  Ford 
seeming  like  an  autumn  leaf  in  the  high  wind.  We  did 
ourselves  well,  even  I,  who  care  not  a  farthing  what  I 
eat  except  to  "stoke  the  engine."  The  proprietor,  who 
left  Alsace  as  a  boy  after  1870,  stood  and  talked  to  us, 
as  we  ate  our  ceujs  au  beurre  noir,  as  French  people  alone 
can  talk.  He  said  "they"  came  only  with  fire  and 
sword;  the  great  Napoleon,  who  came  with  the  same, 
had  also  his  "Code"  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  spoke  of 
the  marvelous  administration  of  Germany,  the  order 
and  the  use  made  of  each  one's  capacities,  which  was 
why  they  could  tenir. 

"We  only  ask  for  a  leader  here  in  France,  to  be  bien 
menes.  All  other  things  we  have  in  abundance.  But 
if  a  department  is  to  be  organized  or  reconstructed,  it 
seems  always  to  be  given  into  the  hands  of  some  one 
knowing  nothing  about  it." 

In  between  I  kept  looking  out  where  against  gray 
skies  beings  half  child,  half  angel  hold  up  stone  flames, 
and  panaches  leaning  one  against  the  other.  The  gild- 
ing of  the  grilles  has  a  dull  gleam  through  the  wet.  The 
statue  of  Stanislas  le  Bienjaisant  was  black  and  big. 
Everybody  was  talking  about  the  unexpected  visit  of 

144 


TOUL 

the  German  avion  in  the  bad  weather  the  night 
before. 

The  station  was  further  devastated,  a  train  moving  out 
was  wrecked  and  many  permissionnaires  killed,  a  house 
near  the  Hdtel  Excelsior  et  d'Angleterre  was  totally 
demolished,  the  avion  flying  very  low,  not  more  than 
twenty-five  meters  above  the  town  at  one  time.  After 
lunch  we  went  over  to  the  prefect's  house,  from  where 
we  were  to  motor  with  him  to  Toul.  He  could  not  go 
with  us,  as  he  was  out  investigating  the  damage  of  the 
night  before,  but  one  of  his  daughters  was  waiting  for 
us  in  the  Prefecture  motor. 

Le  Grand  Couronn6  was  but  a  ridge  of  mist  and  clouds 
as  we  passed  out  of  town,  but  it  was  there  that  the 
Germans  were  held  up  and  Nancy  was  saved  that  first 
September  of  the  war,  there  that  was  written  the 
paraphe  de  Castelnau,  and  from  there  the  German  Em- 
peror had  looked  into  France. 

I  never  should  have  known  Lorraine  if  I  had  not  seen 
it  gray  and  wet  under  its  autumn  skies,  bands  of  lemon 
and  amber  at  sunset  finishing  the  garb  of  its  gray  days. 
As  we  sped  along  I  could  just  distinguish  the  landscape 
— villages  lost  in  the  immense  stretch  of  the  plains,  and 
great  forests  of  beech  and  oak  in  which  are  strange, 
mysterious  ponds  {Hangs),  and  before  my  mind  passed 
for  an  instant  images  of  those  solitaries  of  the  twilight 
centuries,  slipping  through  them  with  staff  and  scrip, 
after  the  Romans,  and  bringing  to  the  land  the  things 
Rome  tried  to  destroy. 

A  beautifully  kept  straight  road  leads  to  Toul.  From 
time  to  time  one  sees  rusty  barbed-wire  entanglements 
and  camouflaged  trenches,  for,  on  this  road,  had  the 
Germans  taken  Nancy,  they  would  have  come  to  Toul, 
as  they  did  in  1870.  Outside  the  town  are  double  ram- 
parts,  where  the  guard  stopped  us,  but  the  military 

145 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

chauffeur  cried  the  magic  words,  ''Monsieur  le  Pre" jet" 
and  we  passed  in  through  the  Porte  de  Metz,  dating  from 
the  time  of  Vauban,  then  skirted  the  town,  to  get  to  the 
barracks  of  Luxembourg,  where  hundreds  of  little  chil- 
dren, first  gathered  together  by  Madame  Mirman,  are 
now  being  taken  care  of  by  the  American  Red  Cross. 
It  is  conducted  by  Doctor  Sedgwick,  unfortunately  in 
Paris.  It  seemed  a  dreary  spot  that  afternoon,  and  it 
has  since  been  confided  to  me  that  the  weather  is  always 
dreadful  there.  The  barracks  are  after  the  new  model 
of  groups  of  one-storied  houses,  which,  it  appears,  have 
also  disadvantages,  as  well  as  the  large  buildings  they 
superseded.1 

It  was  raining  and  hailing  and  blowing  as  we  made 
blind  dashes  from  one  to  the  other  with  the  French 
directors.  A  consolation  to  find  oneself  in  the  dormi- 
tories where  many  blessed  tiny  babies  lay  asleep  (or 
howling!)  in  little  cots  or  perambulators,  out  of  the 
horrid  cold. 

They  are  not  always  orphans,  but  their  mothers  work 
in  the  fields  of  Lorraine  or  in  the  munitions-factories. 
Doctor  Peel,  second  in  charge,  came  at  last  from  a  dis- 
tant building,  and  met  us  in  the  school-room,  out  of  which 
a  hundred  noisy,  warm,  well-fed  children  were  scuffling. 
Tea  was  offered  us,  but  we  came  away;  time  was  short 
and  I  was  a-hungered,  after  the  cold,  windy,  wet  deso- 
lation of  the  Luxembourg  barracks,  for  a  sight  of  the 
beautiful  cathedral. 

Some  one  said,  "Why  'sight-seeing'?"  but  I  said,  "It's 
soul-seeing."  And  there  was  some  lifting  of  the  being 
as  we  stepped  into  the  loveliness  of  the  pale-gray  vault- 
ing of  the  church  of  St.-Etienne.     At  the  end  of  the 

1  The  American  Red  Cross  Asylum  at  Luxembourg  (Toul),  now  under 
the  very  able  management  of  Dr.  Maynard  Ladd,  has  accommodations 
for  nearly  a  thousand  children,  well  and  ill,  and  a  maternity  hospital. 

The  American  forces  hold  the  line  to  the  northwest  of  Toul. 

146 


TOUL 

apse  was  an  immense,  high,  narrow,  blue  window,  and 
it  reminded  me  of  Huysmans's  phrase  about  the  cathe- 
dral of  Chartres,  "Une  blonde  aux  yeux  bleus."  We 
stepped  over  worn  pierres  tombales,  and  as  I  stood  on 
one  of  them,  whose  date,  scarcely  decipherable,  was 
fifteen  hundred  and  something,  I  looked  up  and  saw  in 
the  wall  a  new  marble  plaque,  and  it  was  to  the  memory 
of  "Jean  Bourhis,  aviateur-piloie,  chevalier  de  la  Legion 
d'Honneur,  Croix  de  Guerre,  ne  1888.  .  .  .  Mort  glorieuse- 
ment  pour  la  Patrie,  le  22  mars,  1916."  And  so  one's 
thoughts  are  jerked  from  the  past  into  the  dreadful, 
sacramental  present. 

Close  by  the  cathedral  is  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  once 
the  Episcopal  Palace,  a  gem  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
We  stepped  from  the  little  square  in  front  of  the  church 
into  the  wet,  wind-swept  garden.  At  one  end  is  a  flat, 
round  fountain,  and  behind  it  is  a  moss-grown  statue  of 
a  woman  in  contemplation,  and  one  side  of  the  garden 
is  hedged  in  by  the  flying  buttresses  and  gargoyles  of 
the  cathedral.  Broad,  low  steps  lead  down  to  its  gravel 
walks  from  the  terrace  of  the  Palace,  onto  which  open 
long  windows,  forming  a  great  hemicycle.  I  did  not  need 
to  see  it  under  warm,  sunset  skies,  with  the  linden-trees 
of  the  garden  in  full  blossom,  to  be  possessed  of  its 
charm. 

An  American  soldier  was  coming  out  of  the  cathedral 
as  we  issued  from  the  garden  in  a  gust  of  wind  which 
blew  my  umbrella  wrong  side  out,  and  when  I  and  it 
were  righted  he  was  gone.  But  it's  all  a  part  of 
history. 

We  went  for  a  moment  to  St.-Gengoult,  the  old 
Gothic  church  in  the  rue  Carnot.  (Like  every  town  in 
Lorraine  and  in  the  whole  of  France  there  is  a  rue  Car- 
not, and  it's  horribly  monotonous  when  your  soul  is 
aflame.) 

147 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

As  we  entered,  a  thick  rich  light  came  through  the 
ancient  windows. 

A  black-robed  woman  was  sobbing  before  a  grave  and 
pitying  statue  of  St. -Anne — sixteenth  or  seventeenth 
century,  I  didn't  know  which — and  a  pale,  tiny  child 
with  a  frightened  look  was  standing  by  her.  Again  I 
thought  on  the  oceans  of  fear  children  have  passed 
through  in  this  war,  and  again  I  besought  God  to  take 
care  of  His  world. 

As  I  passed  up  the  central  aisle  I  saw  two  American 
soldiers  kneeling  before  the  high  altar.  That  spot  of 
khaki  and  its  young,  unmistakable  silhouette  under  the 
gray  vaulting  of  that  old  church  suddenly  seemed 
momentous  beyond  anything  I  had  ever  seen.  It  was 
the  country  of  my  birth  and  my  love  pursuing  its  gi- 
gantic destiny  down  an  endless  vista,  crowded  with  un- 
countable khaki-clad  forms,  men  with  souls.  The  two 
anonymous  soldiers  became  typical  of  each  and  every 
Miles  Gloriosus  since  the  world  began,  and  as  they  knelt 
there  on  the  altar  steps  I  knew  that  they  had  been 
laid  on  that  other  dreadful  altar  of  the  world's  sin.  .  .  . 

An  open  door  showed  us  the  way  to  a  lovely  Gothic 
cloister  of  the  sixteenth  century,  surrounding  a  tree-  and 
flower-planted  court.  It  had  a  few  fresh  chippings  on 
its  belle  patine,  the  results  of  a  bomb  which  fell  in  it 
a  few  months  ago. 

Long  lines  of  soldiers'  socks  were  hung  on  strings 
across  one  corner  of  it,  and  soldiers  were  sitting  in  a 
little  room-like  corridor,  leading  I  know  not  where, 
reading  newspapers,  whistling  and  writing.  Then,  out 
through  a  delightful  sixteenth-century  door  into  the 
streets,  the  loveliness  of  Toul  imagined  rather  than 
really  perceived,  for  the  rain  was  falling  again.  Khaki- 
clad  men  of  the  Division  marocainc,  together  with  blue- 
clad  companions,  were  threading  their  way  through  the 

148 


TOUL 

narrow  streets,  and  there  were  few  women  and  children. 
I  thought  how  I  had  seen  the  two  towers  of  the  church 
shining  from  afar  as  I  passed  by  in  the  train  that  June 
evening  with  the  two  Bretons  whose  fate  I  shall  never 
know.  .  .  .  Did  the  one  from  Nantes  return  to  hold  his 
first-born  in  his  arms?  Or  the  fiance  return  to  consum- 
mate his  nuptials? 

Then  I  caught  sight  of  my  own  two  soldiers  standing 
at  the  door  of  a  little  tobacco-shop.  I  suppose  it  was 
the  nearest  resemblance  to  anything  familiar  in  Toul, 
and  they  were  rather  cuddling  up  to  it.  They  smiled 
broadly  when  they  heard  themselves  addressed  in  what 
they  termed  the  "blessed  lingo,"  and  called  it  "some 
luck." 

"I  was  just  thinking,  'me  for  the  coop,'"  genially 
continued  the  biggest,  raw-boned,  lantern-jawed  one  who 
had  a  bad  bronchial  cold  and  wore  a  muffler  about  his 
throat.  He  turned  out  to  be  from  Omaha;  the  smaller 
one  was  from  Hackensack,  N.  J.  (with  an  emphasis  on  the 
N.  J.).  We  talked  about  simple  and  unglorious  mat- 
ters, what  they  had  for  breakfast,  among  other  things, 
and  it  was,  in  parenthesis,  what  any  Frenchman  would 
call  a  dinner — ham  and  eggs  and  oatmeal  and  white 
bread  (which  none  save  American  soldiers  get  in 
France  these  days)  and  jam  and  coffee.  They  were 
from  Pagny-sur-Meuse  near  by — pronounced  "Pag-ni" 
by  the  Omaha  man.  The  Hackensack  man  avoided  it. 
He  quite  simply  wanted  "the  war  to  begin,"  so  that 
he  might  "show  the  Germans  how." 

"We're  sure  to  lick  'em  in  the  spring,"  the  one  with 
the  cold  said,  "but  it's  a  long  time  waiting  for  the  fun 
to  begin,  and  I  haven't  been  warm  since  I  got  here." 

I  asked  them  how  they  came  into  France. 

"All  I  know  is  that  after  we  got  off  the  boat  we  were 
three  days  in  some  sort  of  a  milk-train;  there  wasn't 
11  149 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

room  to  sit,  let  alone  lie.  We  drew  lots  and  I  got  the 
baggage-rack;  but  what  saved  us  was  that  we  could 
get  out  at  every  station,  and,  believe  me,  the  fellows 
that  got  drunk  were  the  only  ones  that  pulled  in  all 
right — the  others  were  sent  up  to  hospital  soon  as  they 
arrived." 

In  the  best  and  most  persuasive  of  Y.  M.  C.  A.  man- 
ners I  said  to  this  special  Miles  Gloriosus: 

"It  isn't  a  remedy,  however,  that  you  could  really 
count  on." 

"But  I  say,"  answered  the  Omaha  man,  "you'll  own 
up  that  it's  worth  trying." 

It  was  getting  late  and,  the  Omaha  man  having  the 
best  of  it,  we  parted  with  smiles  of  mutual  appreciation. 
It's  all  so  simple — and  so  momentous. 

Then  back  to  Nancy,  running  swiftly  over  a  white 
road,  the  gray  sky  very  low,  and  on  either  side  green 
and  yellow  and  brown  fields,  and  the  oak  and  beech 
forest  of  Haye.  The  Grand  Couronn6  for  a  moment  was 
divested  of  its  mists,  and  some  brightening  of  the  west- 
ern sky  touched  its  ridge  with  a  subdued  splendor;  and 
then  we  got  into  Nancy  and  were  deposited  at  the  Pre- 
fecture, where  we  made  our  adieux.  We  proceeded  to 
the  garage  of  a  stoutish,  blond  man  of  pronounced  Teu- 
ton type  and  accent,  with  an  uncertain  smile — and  a 
coreless  heart,  I  think — who  cranked  la  Ford  (by  the 
way,  Fords  change  their  sex  in  France),  and  we  started 
out  through  the  town  that  night  was  enveloping,  with 
but  one  dull  eye  to  light  us  to  Luneville.  We  thought 
the  trip  might  prove  fairly  uncertain,  but  didn't  know 
how  much  so  till  there  was  an  impact,  in  the  crowded 
suburb,  and  a  horse's  form  with  legs  in  air,  looking 
as  big  as  a  monster  of  the  Pliocene  age,  showed  for  an 
instant  on  our  radiator,  then  fell  to  the  ground.  A 
crowd  immediately  gathered,   while  the  driver  of  the 

150 


TOUL 

cart  proceeded  to  tell  us  what  he  thought  of  us  in  partic- 
ular and  women  drivers  in  general.  But,  though  unfor- 
tunate, we  felt  blameless,  as  the  horse  had  been  tied 
behind  the  wagon  standing  at  the  curb  and  there  was 
no  light,  except  something  very  dim  coming  from  a  green- 
grocer's. We  departed  to  the  commissaire  de  police  with 
the  man  and  a  couple  of  gendarmes,  explained  that  we 
were  willing  to  do  anything  and  everything  if  he  would 
only  let  us  proceed  to  Luneville,  gave  the  magic  name 
"Commission  Calif  ornienne,"  and  equally  potent  refer- 
ence to  the  Prtfet  de  la  Meurilie  et  Moselle  whose  house 
we  had  just  left.  Then  with  beating  hearts  and  a 
chastened  outlook  on  life — I  use  the  word  "outlook" 
rather  wildly;  we  couldn't  see  anything — we  passed  out 
through  the  great  manufacturing  district.  Every  now 
and  then  our  feeble  ray  was  swallowed  up  by  the  great 
lamps  of  a  military  auto  or  the  large  round  headlight 
of  a  camion.  As  we  passed  through  St. -Nicolas  du  Port 
and  Dombasle  the  blue  of  the  soldiers'  tunics  took  on 
a  strange  ghoul-like  color,  a  white  incandescent  sort  of 
gray,  and  the  moving  forms  seemed  twice  their  natural 
size.  We  couldn't  see  the  streets  at  all,  and  the  only 
thing  we  wanted  to  do  in  all  the  world  was  to  get  to 
Luneville  and  run  la  Ford  into  the  garage  of  M.  Guerin. 
When  that  was  accomplished  we  decided  to  say  good- 
by  to  the  proud  world,  sent  regrets  to  Mile.  Guerin,  and 
had  a  much  more  modest  repast  served  in  my  room  by 
the  deft  maid,  whose  husband  got  typhoid  fever  in  the 
trenches  and  died  at  Epinal  last  year.  Later  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house  came  up  to  know  if  we  were  com- 
fortable, and  told  us  her  husband,  too,  had  died  of  it  in 
hospital  at  Toul.  And  then  I  read  Les  Vieux  Chdteaux 
de  la  Vesouze,  a  modern  Etude  lorraine,  and  Promenades 
autour  de  Luneville,  printed  in  1838,  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  rattling  windows  and  the  heavy  boom  of  dis- 

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MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

tant  cannon.  All  else  was  quiet.  Near  my  room  is  a 
device  plastered  on  the  wall,  Qui  tient  a  sa  tranquillity  sail 
respecter  celle  des  autres.  Isn't  it  nice?  It  makes  one 
steal  in  at  night,  get  into  slippers  immediately,  and  ring 
gently  in  the  morning. 

It  is  still  raining,  hailing,  blowing — dreadfully  dis- 
couraging weather  to  investigate  the  amours  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  I  have  a  couple  of  twentieth- 
century  idyls  right  under  my  eyes,  too.  I  had  planned 
a  stroll  in  the  park  to  trace  the  steps  of  Leopold  and 
Stanislas  to  the  doors  of  the  fairest  of  ladies,  and  Pan- 
pan  and  St. -Lambert  and  the  Chevalier  de  Boumers, 
and  all  the  other  charmeurs.  I'll  either  have  to  leave 
them  out  of  the  Journal  or  do  them  in  some  half -dream 
when  I'm  back  in  Paris  and  warm!  What  they  did  in 
this  sort  of  weather  I  don't  know,  except  that  when  they 
knocked  at  a  door  or  tapped  at  a  window  they  were  sure 
of  tender  welcomes,  they  and  the  easy  verses  that  ac- 
companied them. 


CHAPTER   IV 

A    STROLL    IN    NANCY 

October  15th. 

I  SPENT  yesterday  a-wandering  in  the  old  streets  of 
Nancy,  between  gusts  of  wind  and  rain  and  great 
bursts  of  sun.  After  much  coaxing,  la  Ford  was  cajoled 
into  taking  the  road  at  9.30,  but  as  we  got  to  Nancy  and 
into  the  Place  Stanislas  suddenly  her  front  wheels 
spread  apart.  E.  M.  gave  one  glance,  but  not  at  all 
the  glance  of  despair  she  would  have  given  had  it 
happened  on  the  road,  and  then  flew  to  seek  her  waiting 
bridegroom  at  the  H6tel  Excelsior  et  d'Angleterre,  while 
I,  less  enthusiastically,  sought  the  blond  chauffeur  of 
the  coreless  heart.  He  seemed  quite  human,  as,  un- 
screwing the  bar  in  front,  which  crumbled  softly  like  a 
piece  of  bread,  he  held  up  a  piece  and  said,  ' '  C  etait  fait 
pour  vous  casser  le  cou." 

Seeing  the  American  flag  flying  from  the  ground-floor 
window  of  one  of  the  beautiful  old  buildings  of  the  Place 
Stanislas,  I  went  in  to  find  Mrs.  Dawson  installed  in 
charge  of  the  Nancy  branch  of  the  "American  Fund  for 
French  Wounded. ' '  It  was  another  novelty  for  Stanislas 
to  look  upon  out  of  his  right  eye !  He's  been  kept  busy, 
these  past  three  years,  looking  about  him.  The  large 
room  was  filled  with  furniture  M.  Mirman  is  collecting 
for  refugees — wardrobes,  tables,  chairs,  in  and  on  which 
were  piles  of  shirts,  vests,  sweaters,  cachenez,  handker- 

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MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

chiefs,  all  from  over  the  ocean.  And  really,  when  one 
investigates  the  comfort-bags  filled  by  too-generous 
American  hands,  one  has  a  cupidous  feeling.  There  is 
a  lavishness  in  the  matter  of  Colgate's  tooth-paste,  for 
instance,  which  one  can  rarely  get  for  love,  and  not 
at  all  for  money,  in  Paris! 

I  came  away  in  a  gray,  slanting  rain  that  made  the 
Place  Stanislas  look  as  if  Raffaello  had  done  it  over  and 
framed  it  beautifully  in  gray.  Great  scratchings  of 
rainfall,  and  soldiers  and  women  hurrying  through  it. 
But  le  geste  is  not  like  the  days  when  Raffaello  painted 
■ — there  are  no  skirts  to  lift  up,  or,  rather,  none  that 
need  lifting. 

Then  I  crossed  over  to  the  Place  de  la  Carriere, 
where  souvent  en  ces  aimables  lieux  des  heros  et  des  demi- 
dieux  had  held  their  tournaments,  and  then  into  the 
church  of  St.-Epvre  to  get  a  Mass.  The  stained-glass 
windows,  modern  and  very  expensive-looking,  were 
crisscrossed  with  broad  stripes  of  paper  on  the  side 
toward  the  railway,  where  the  shocks  from  the  fre- 
quent bombing  of  the  station  are  especially  felt.  Every- 
where in  Nancy  the  windows  are  broken,  or  criss- 
crossed with  paper,  or  both.  The  church  was  blue  with 
military. 

Afterward  I  walked  through  the  Grande  Rue.  The 
ducal  palace  of  the  early  sixteenth  century,  begun  by 
Rene  II,  has  its  door  scaffolded  and  sandbagged.  It  is 
the  celebrated  Mus^e  Lorrain,  whose  treasures  are  now 
removed  further  from  the  frontier.  It  is  here  that  the 
body  of  Charles  III  lay  in  such  magnificence  that  there 
arose  the  saying  in  the  sixteenth  century  that  the  three 
most  gorgeous  ceremonies  in  the  world  were  the  con- 
secration of  a  king  of  France  at  Reims,  the  crowning  of 
an  emperor  of  Germany  at  Frankfort,  and  the  obsequies 
of  a  duke  of  Lorraine  at  Nancy. 

J54 


A    STROLL    IN    NANCY 

I  continued  down  the  Grande  Rue  between  groups  of 
poilus,  officers,  and  the  usual  Sunday  population  coming 
from  Mass,  or  getting  in  last  dinner  provisions,  to  the 
Porte  de  Graffe  of  the  fourteenth  century,  beyond  which 
is  the  Porte  de  la  Citadelle,  and  then  the  garrison.  As 
one  walks  along,  the  snatches  of  talk  one  overhears  are 
"Bombarde  deux  fois,"  "Pas  un  vitre  qui  reste,"  "Volant 
tres-bas,"  etc. 

I  came  back  through  the  park.  In  it  is  a  modern 
iron  bandstand,  fortunately  copied  after  the  delicious 
designs  of  Jean  Lamour — only  he  would  have  done  some- 
thing to  relieve  the  heavy  iron  roof.  And  he  quite 
certainly  caught  his  inspiration  musing  about  the  park 
one  autumn  day,  for  everywhere  I  saw  charming  repeti- 
tions of  his  grilles  in  that  delicate  tracery  of  yellow  leaf 
against  gray  trunk  and  branch. 

Old  houses  give  on  the  park,  where  one  might  dream 
dreams,  and  find  the  world — perhaps  well  lost.  Many 
windows  broken,  and  more  crisscrossing  with  bands  of 
paper. 

It  was  getting  to  be  12.30  when,  having  been  as  much 
of  an  angel  as  the  three  dimensions  permit,  I  emerged 
on  to  the  Place  Stanislas  to  see  E.  M.  approaching 
with  a  young  blue-clad  aviator,  with  something  dis- 
tinguished yet  modest  in  his  bearing,  of  whom  I  in- 
stantly thought  he  is  one  of  those  qui  cherche  sa  recom- 
pense plutot  dans  les  yeux  de  ses  hommes  que  dans  les 
notes  de  ses  chefs — and  so  it  proved  to  be.  He  didn't 
even  wear  the  brisquets  of  his  years  of  service  on  his 
arm. 

' '  Tout  le  monde  sait  que  je  n'ai  pas  ete  trois  ans  sans 
rien  faire,"  he  said,  later,  during  lunch,  which  we  took 
in  the  Cafe  Stanislas,  crowded  with  gallooned  and  deco- 
rated officers.  Several  red-and-white  marked  autos  of 
the  General  Staff  were  waiting  before  the  door,  where 

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MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

Stanislas  also  could  see  them,  and  those  beings,  half 
human,  half  divine,  of  the  sky-line,  framed  it  all.  After- 
ward I  again  removed  my  three  dimensions,  hunting  for 
M.  Pierre  Boye,  the  great  authority  on  all  things  of 
Lorraine,  M.  Guerin  having  given  me  a  letter  to  him. 
On  arriving  at  the  house,  through  quiet  gray  streets, 
there  was  no  answer  to  my  numerous  ringings  of  the 
bell,  so  I  came  back,  drawn  irresistibly  to  the  Place 
Stanislas.  By  this  time  it  was  aglow  in  the  afternoon 
light;  great  masses  of  clouds  even  at  3.30  were  tinted 
with  yellow  and  orange,  and  every  inch  of  gilding  caught 
the  light.  I  hailed  an  antique  cab  and  drove  out  where 
I  could  look  over  rolling  stretches  of  country,  along  the 
road  to  Toul.  The  brown  and  yellow  fields  were  aglow, 
the  bronzing  forests,  too ;  above  were  piled  the  high  and 
splendid  clouds  of  autumnal  Lorraine,  and  I  saw  where 
Claude  le  Lorrain  had  got  his  masses.  The  cocker  then 
proceeded  to  bring  me  back  to  town  by  a  perfectly  hid- 
eous road,  called  Quai  Claude  le  Lorrain — on  one  side 
the  blackened  railway,  on  the  other  modern  claptrappy 
houses  with  their  windows  shattered  and  their  roofs 
damaged. 

I  then  told  him  to  take  me  to  the  church  of  the  Cor- 
deliers, where  I  stepped  suddenly,  not  only  into  its  late 
afternoon  dimness,  but  into  the  dimness  of  past  ages. 
A  shaft  of  light  from  a  high  window  showed  me  a  dull, 
rich  bit  of  color  on  an  ancient  pillar,  in  a  sort  of  chapel ; 
and  then  my  eye  fell  on  what  I  had  come  to  see,  the 
tomb  of  the  Duchesse  Philippe  de  Gueldre,  widow  of 
Rene  II,  bearing  the  incomparable  stamp  of  the  genius 
of  Ligier  Richier. 

I  tiptoed  toward  the  stone  slab  where  that  great  lady 
of  another  age  is  lying  asleep,  clad  in  the  dark  robe  of 
the  Poor  Clares.  Her  hands,  folded  downward,  are 
clasped  at  her  waist.     Under  the  cowl  the  pale  head  is 

156 


A    STROLL    IN    NANCY 

turned  gently,  as  if  in  sleep.1  She  is  an  enduring  image 
of  resignation,  not  alone  for  herself,  but  for  all  of  us 
who  live  and  die,  we  don't  quite  know  how  or  why,  and 
who  must  "endure  our  going  hence  even  as  our  coming 
hither." 

The  church  was  constructed  by  her  husband,  Rene 
II,  Duke  of  Lorraine,  to  commemorate  the  deliverance 
of  Nancy  and  the  defeat  of  Charles  the  Bold,  Duke  of 
Burgundy,  in  1477.  Duke  Ren6  himself  had  a  glorious 
reign ;  for  him  the  arts  and  letters  were  the  ornament  of 
victory.  I  discovered  a  commemorative  monument  of 
my  friend  Duke  Leopold,  flanked  rather  flamboyantly 
by  unquiet,  yet  charming,  statues  of  Faith  and  Hope! 
Also  an  elaborate  statue  of  Katerina  Opalinska,  the 
consort  of  Stanislas,  who,  though  he  had  been  somewhat 
forgetful  of  her  in  life,  had  done  really  all  that  a  wife 
could  wish  in  the  matter  of  the  tomb.  But  some  virtue 
more  mystic  than  the  decorative  Faith  and  Hope  of  the 
eighteenth  century  exhaled  from  the  quiet  figure  of 
Philippe  de  Gueldre. 

Near  the  high  altar  is  the  Chapelle  Ronde  begun 
by  Charles  III,  the  grandson  of  Ren6,  in  1607,  intended 
as  a  sepulcher  for  the  princes  of  Lorraine,  and  in  a 
beautiful  grille  are  entwined  the  arms  of  Lorraine  and 
Austria.  Then  the  sacristan  came  in  to  light  the  candles 
of  the  high  altar,  the  church  got  suddenly  quite  dark, 

1  Her  epitaph,  written  by  herself,  is  to  the  effect  that  underneath  lies  a 
rotting  worm,  giving  to  death  the  tribute  of  nature,  the  earth  her  only 
covering,  and  begging  her  sisters,  the  Poor  Clares,  to  say  for  her  a  Re- 
quiescat  in  pace. 

Ci-gist  un  ver  tout  en  pourriture, 

Donnant  &  mort  le  tribut  de  la  nature. 

Sceur  Philippe  de  Gueldre  fust  Royne  du  passf, 

Terre  soulat  pour  toute  couverture. 

Soeurs,  dites-lui  une  requiescat  in  pace. 

MDXLVII. 

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MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

from  the  organ  came  the  strains  of  "O  quam  suavis  est, 
Domine"  and  people  began  to  come  in  to  Benediction. 
The  blue  and  vermilion  and  gold  of  the  mausoleum  of 
Rene  II  faded  and  one  saw  only  vague  outlines  of  saints 
and  angels,  and  a  figure  of  the  Eternal  Father.  It  cried 
out  of  that  other  deliverance  of  Nancy;  but  when  the 
world  war  is  over  will  his  widow,  Philippe  de  Gueldre, 
conjunx  Piissimi,  still  be  sleeping  quietly,  her  brown  cowl 
over  her  head  and  her  crown  at  her  feet?  Her  soul 
"conducted  to  Paradise  by  angels,  where  martyrs  re- 
ceived her  and  led  her  into  the  Holy  City  Jerusalem." 
The  church  got  quite  full,  the  organist  continued  to 
play  early  Italian  music,  and  the  "Pieta,  Signor"  of 
Pergolese  rose  as  I  knelt  by  Philippe  de  Gueldre.  The 
great  cope  of  the  priest  shone,  the  smell  of  incense  per- 
vaded the  dim  spaces,  the  "Tantunt  Ergo"  sounded, 
and  I  bowed  my  head.  .  .  . 

Then  out  into  a  world  of  fading  light,  found  the 
cocker  in  the  exact  attitude  I  had  left  him,  and  begged 
him  to  drive  quickly  (which  was  impossible)  to  the 
H6tel  Excelsior  et  d'Angleterre,  bethinking  me  of  the 
5.30  train  to  Luneville.  As  we  went  through  the  dim, 
charming  streets  I  remembered  an  old  verse  I  had 
found  in  one  of  M.  Gu6rin's  books,  by  an  unreservedly 
admiring  individual,  who  said  that  if  he  had  one  foot 
in  Paradise  and  the  other  in  Nancy,  he  would  withdraw 
the  one  in  Paradise,  that  both  might  be  in  Nancy! 

I  found  waiting  at  the  door  of  the  hotel  E.  M.,  the 
distingue"  young  aviator,  and  Don  Kelley,  en  permission 
for  twenty-four  hours  from  Gondrecourt,  strong  and 
eager,  since  a  week  at  Gondrecourt,  since  a  month  in 
France  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

The  young  men  took  us  to  the  station  and  deposited 
us  in  the  train  and  made  their  adieux.  For  very  special 
reasons  at  that  moment  I  said  to  E.  M.: 

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A   STROLL    IN   NANCY 

"If  you  are  going  back  to  Luneville  on  my  account, 
don't!" 

The  guard  had  closed  the  door  of  the  compartment, 
had  sounded  his  whistle,  but  I  caught  the  look  in  her 
eye  and  out  we  jumped,  returning  to  the  hotel,  where  we 
gave  what  we  hoped  was  a  pleasant  surprise  party. 
Diner  a  quatre  at  seven  o'clock.  About  a  dozen  Ameri- 
cans en  permission  were  dining  among  many  French- 
men, and  we  amused  ourselves  investigating  the  multi- 
colored intricacies  of  the  various  uniforms,  aviators, 
cavalry,  infantry,  artillery,  and  the  many  "grades." 
Then  again  a  dash  for  the  station — Count  de  L.  had  to 
get  to  Paris,  and  Don  Kelley  to  Gondrecourt.  The 
latter  said,  as  we  stood  in  the  dark,  battered  station: 

"I  am  where  I  would  most  want  to  be  in  the  world, 
and,  though  I  am  an  only  son,  I  am  where  my  parents 
would  most  wish  me  to  be.  When  I  get  back  to  Gondre- 
court and  get  into  that  long,  dark  shed  and  see  the  men 
rolled  up,  and  if  it  is  raining,  the  water  dripping  in,  I 
shall  know  it  is  the  real  thing,  and  those  of  my  genera- 
tion who  have  known  it  and  those  who  have  not  will 
be  forever  divided." 

Permissions  not  being  among  things  safely  trifled  with, 
we  then  saw  them  into  their  train,  which  was  leaving 
first,  and  crossed  the  rails  to  where  ours,  dark,  filled 
with  returning  officers,  was  waiting;  and  so  out  into 
the  night  with  all  curtains  carefully  drawn,  the  stars 
shining.  It  was  a  nuit  a  boches,  one  of  the  officers  said, 
continuing,  "It's  often  an  obsession  with  them — for  a 
long  time  they  won't  come  near  Nancy  or  Luneville, 
and  then  every  night  when  it  is  at  all  clear  they  appear." 
The  inhabitants  can  choose  (in  their  minds)  between 
good  weather  and  avions  or  bad  weather  and  safety. 

Trains  from  Nancy  to  Luneville  seem  to  have  a  way 
of  hunting  up  stations,  threading  them  up,  and  what 

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MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

one  does  easily  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour  in  a  motor 
takes  an  hour  and  a  half  to  three,  according  to  the 
stops.  At  Blainville  we  descended  to  show  our  sauf- 
conduits,  the  guard  standing  just  behind  a  convenient 
puddle  that  every  one  splashed  into  and  then  stepped 
out  of.  Finally,  Luneville,  night-enveloped,  lighted 
only  with  flashes  from  electric  pocket-lamps,  like  great 
fireflies.  And  coming  through  the  night  from  Nancy, 
I  kept  thinking  how  France  had  done  enough,  more  than 
enough,  the  impossible,  and  what  a  cold  and  dreadful 
grind  the  war  had  become,  and  of  untried  young  Ameri- 
cans sleeping  in  dim  villages  so  near.  And  many  other 
things  that  it  is  bootless  to  record.     Nous  sommes  dedans. 


CHAPTER   V 

VITRIMONT   IN   AUTUMN 

OUT  of  Luneville  over  the  muddy  Vesouze,  through 
the  Place  Brulee,  and  onto  a  pasty  road,  E.  M. 
driving,  and,  on  the  back  seat,  newly  wedded  love.  As 
we  left  the  town  a  dwarf  made  a  face  at  us  and  then 
turned  his  back  on  us  with  a  not  over-elegant  gesture, 
for  all  the  world  like  the  tales  of  the  famous  dwarf 
Bebe,  during  years  the  delight  of  the  Court  of  Stanislas. 

Mustard  and  osier  plantings  became  the  intensest 
yellow  or  red,  as  the  sun  fell  on  them  through  rifts  in 
dark  clouds,  and  many  women,  old  men,  and  children 
were  working  in  wet  beet-root  fields,  among  little  group- 
ings of  black  crosses.  .  .  . 

We  got  into  Vitrimont  through  streets  deep  in  mud. 
Such  a  change!  Before  reaching  it,  instead  of  the  skele- 
ton outline  of  homes  one  now  sees  orderly  rows  of  red 
roofs.  The  work  that  had  seemed  almost  stationary, 
pursued  with  so  much  difficulty  by  Comtesse  de  B. 
(Miss  Polk),  had  got  suddenly  to  a  point  where  it  be- 
gan to  show,  though  the  finished  houses  will  be  too  damp 
for  habitation  this  winter,  and,  like  a  lot  of  other  things, 
must  await  the  spring. 

Everywhere  in  the  streets  the  busy  work  of  recon- 
struction is  proceeding.  Soldiers  billeted  in  Vitrimont 
are  coming  and  going,  helping  with  masonry,  bringing 
in  great  wagons  of  beet-root,  as  if  they  had  always  lived 

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MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

there;  not  en  passant  par  la  Lorraine.  It's  a  very  hu- 
man document,  this  billeting  of  soldiers;  though,  as 
far  as  they  are  concerned,  when  they  leave  a  village 
they  only  change  their  residence.  For  the  women  the 
thing  is  much  more  serious.  They  get  a  change  of  regi- 
ment. However,  I  have  no  time  to  muse  on  this  detail 
of  the  war.  Things  in  Vitrimont  were  simply  taking 
their  inevitable  course.  Nothing  is  held  back  for  long, 
with  the  generations  pressing  thick  and  fast.  Black- 
aproned  children  with  books  on  their  backs,  to  whom 
E.  M.  gave  little  slabs  of  chocolate,  were  coming 
from  the  new  school-house.  Old  men  were  hobbling 
about,  and  women  bending  over  embroidery  frames, 
in  houses  often  half  destroyed  and  hastily  roofed  over. 
In  the  old  days  Lorraine  furnished  beautiful  damasks 
and  gold  galloons  and   laces  to    Paris    and    Versailles. 

We  stopped  by  a  window  where  a  thin-faced  woman 
was  just  taking  from  its  frame  a  beautiful  beaded  bag 
such  as  one  would  buy  very,  very  dear  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix.  Near  her  sat  an  old  woman,  her  mother,  the 
light  falling  on  her  pale,  withered  face,  wearing  a  great 
black-bowed  head-dress,  a  yellow  cat  in  her  lap.  It  was 
an  inUrieur  that  would  have  done  honor  to  any  great 
museum. 

We  visited  Mile.  Antoine,  living  in  a  reconstructed 
street  named  after  a  Polish  prince.  She  escaped  to 
Luneville  with  her  servant  on  the  day  of  the  entry  of 
the  Germans  into  the  village,  August  23,  19 14,  fleeing 
through  the  ancient  forest,  but  returned  to  her  Lares 
and  Penates  a  few  days  afterward  with  German  passes. 
She  represents  culture  in  the  village,  and  is  clear-eyed, 
sweet-voiced,  but  with  two  red  spots  on  her  cheeks — 
she  is  fighting  off  consumption  by  living  out  of  doors 
with  her  chickens  and  live  stock,  in  sabots  and  apron 
and  shawl.     A  beautiful  old  desk  was  in  her  living-room, 

162 


MISS    POLK  S    WEDDING 

The  Comtesse   de  Buyer  (Miss  Polk)  on  the  arm  of  Monsieur  Mirman,  Prefect  of  the 
Meurthe  et   Moselle,  after  her  wedding  at  Vitrimont,   September,    1917. 


VITRIMONT    IN    AUTUMN 

and  there  was  a  discussion  as  to  whether  it  was  Louis 
XVI  or  Directoire,  but  under  any  name  one  would  have 
loved  to  possess  it.  The  windows  looked  out  onto  the 
inevitable  dung-heap,  but  beyond  were  bronzing  forests, 
and,  in  between,  fields  the  color  of  semi-precious  stones. 

Hearing  the  sound  of  music  as  we  passed  the  church, 
we  went  in  and  found  some  young  girls  were  practising 
a  "Credo,"  clustered  about  the  little  organ,  and  wearing 
brooches  with  a  device  of  thistle  and  double  Lorraine 
cross  that  Madame  de  Buyer  had  given  them  on  her 
wedding-day.  I  looked  again  upon  the  lovely  old  fif- 
teenth-century vaulting,  fully  restored,  shifting  my  eye 
hurriedly  from  the  hideous  but  seemingly  imperishable 
dado  with  its  design  of  painted  folds  of  cloth.  At  the 
door  the  little  holy  water  fonts,  formed  of  shells  held 
upon  two  heads  of  seraphim,  gave  me  a  thrill  of  joy — 
and  sadness,  too,  that  beauty  is  so  perishable. 

Then  I  turned  to  the  cemetery.  The  little  pathways 
were  muddy  beneath  the  leafless  trees.  Bead  crosses 
and  wreaths  and  a  few  stunted  chrysanthemums  deco- 
rated the  wet  graves.  All  seasons  are  the  same  to  the 
dead.  I  stood  by  a  breach  in  the  wall  near  the  grave 
of  "Charles  Carron,  musicien,  souvenir  oVun  camarade, 
31  don't,  1914,"  looking  out  toward  the  forest  of  Vitri- 
mont.  Its  autumn  garb  was  soft,  discreet,  and  lovely; 
more  jasper  and  amethyst  and  chrysoprase  and  cornelian 
fields  rolled  gently  in  between  it  and  me.  There  was 
the  band  of  yellow  like  a  Greek  border  to  a  garment  in 
the  western  sky — only  that  and  nothing  more,  yet  some 
beauty  and  sadness  chained  me  to  the  spot.  Quail  and 
woodcock,  gray  pheasant  and  larks,  were  flying  about, 
and  some  strongly  marked  black-and-white  magpies  were 
pecking  at  something  in  the  nearest  field.  I  asked 
myself  again,  "What  is  it  that  stamps  Lorraine  with 
such  beauty?"     General  de  Buyer  told  me  that  when 

163 


MY    LORRAINE   JOURNAL 

Pierre  Loti  came  to  Vitrimont  he  said,  "Cest  trop  vert," 
and  perhaps,  after  Stamboul  and  Egypt  and  the  Grecian 
Isles,  it  would  seem  too  green.  But  I  saw,  returning 
there  in  autumn,  that  the  soul  of  Lorraine,  V elegante  et 
douleureuse,  is  like  unto  tarnished  silver,  with  its  grays, 
yellows,  browns,  and  purples ;  that  soul  that  has  suffered, 
hoped  through  the  generations,  whose  abiding-places 
have  been  devastated  and  rebuilt  through  the  centuries. 
And  I  knew  that  one  must  see  it  in  autumn,  beneath  the 
wasteful  splendors  of  gray  clouds,  with  their  hints  of 
color,  red,  brown,  yellow,  and  purple,  or  with  sky  and 
rain  melting  into  one,  curtaining  the  brown,  mysterious 
earth — and,  in  between,  the  beat  of  the  human  heart. 
It  all  seemed  to  show  itself  through  some  dissolving 
light  of  ages.  Those  secular  beeches,  that  I  had  first 
seen  in  their  tenderest  green,  had  become  a  brilliant 
yellow,  and  were  turned  to  the  south.  The  great  bronze 
oaks  looked  to  the  north,  obeying  laws  as  inviolable  as 
those  of  the  human  beings  passing  beneath  them.  In 
all  these  forests  round  about  Vitrimont,  Parroy,  and 
Mondon  the  legendary  lords  of  the  country  hunted ;  the 
roads  of  Gaul  disappeared  under  the  great  Roman  high- 
ways which  traversed  Lorraine  from  Langres  to  Treves, 
from  Toul  to  Metz,  and  again  from  Langres  to  Stras- 
burg.  The  name  Luneville  emerges  out  of  the  night 
of  the  tenth  century  in  the  person  of  Etienne,  Bishop 
of  Toul,  successor  of  St. -Gerard,  and  Folmar  I,  Count 
of  Luneville,  was  married  to  Sparhilde,  descended  from 
Charlemagne.  (To  this  day  I  notice  that  almost  any 
one  who  respects  himself  in  these  parts  talks  quite 
casually  of  being  descended  from  Charlemagne,  or 
Charles  the  Bald,  or  Rene"  the  Victorious,  as  a  Boston 
man  might  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers.)  Folmar's  hunting- 
lodge  was  by  the  muddy  Vesouze,  over  which  one  passes 
to  get  from  Luneville  to  Vitrimont.     In  time  it  was 

164 


VITRIMONT    IN    AUTUMN 

transformed  into  a  chateau,  and  around  it  grew  a  vil- 
lage, which  in  turn  became  a  fortified  town,  then  the 
capital  of  Leopold  and  Stanislas. 

I  stood  for  a  long  time  by  that  1914  breach  in  the 
wall,  and  the  grave  of  Charles  Carron,  musicien,  looking 
out  over  the  rolling  fields  in  the  late  October  afternoon, 
migrating  birds  passing  against  the  amber  sky,  red 
vines  floating  from  the  yellowing  branches  of  oaks  and 
beeches;  near  me  was  a  tangle  of  wild-plum  bushes, 
stiffened  blackberry- vines,  and  dried  ramie.  All  except 
the  deeds  of  men  seemed  sweet.  Everything  was  in 
sinuous  lines,  inclosing  the  jasper,  amethyst,  chrysoprase, 
russet,  jewels  of  the  fields,  through  which  flow  the  slow 
rivers,  slipping  between  bushes  of  osier  and  plum,  and 
somewhere  there  is  a  slower,  nigrescent  canal  scarcely 
a-move  between  willows  and  poplars.  And  those  men 
who  are  out  there  where  that  dull  thunder  is!  .  .  . 

I  thought  how  often  in  her  history  the  men  that 
hunted  in  her  forests  or  tilled  her  fields  had  reddened 
them  with  their  blood,  or,  buried  in  them,  had  increased 
the  harvests,  fighting  now  against  one  invader,  now 
another,  being  continually  thrown  back  from  power  to 
power  like  a  ball,  with  nothing  changeless  save  the 
changelessness  of  their  changing  destiny  —  and  its 
unescapableness . 

And  how,  under  Godefroy  de  Bouillon,  a  Lorraine 
prince,  the  Crusades  began,  and  under  a  duke  of  Lor- 
raine, Charles  V,  they  ended.  And  of  the  holy  glory 
of  Jeanne  d'Arc.  And  now,  after  the  lapse  of  centuries, 
of  the  covenant  of  our  own  men. 

I  realized  that  the  beauty  of  Lorraine  is  not  entirely 
of  the  natural  world. 

As  we  drove  back  there  was  a  sudden  flaming  up  of 
that  band  of  lemon.  The  western  sky  became  a  vast 
ocean  of  pink  with  great  white  clouds  afloat  in  it.  The 
12  165 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

red  roofs  of  Luneville  were  transfigured,  a  crimson  glow 
was  flung  about  the  Pompadour  towers  of  the  church, 
outlined  against  a  blue-white  eastern  sky.  But  only 
for  a  few  minutes.  The  streets  of  Luneville  were  al- 
ready dim  as  we  passed  in  through  the  battered  suburbs. 

We  stopped  for  tea  at  the  house  of  Madame on 

the  outskirts  of  the  town.  It  had  been  occupied  by  the 
Germans  that  first  August,  and  in  one  of  the  salons 
was  a  large  hole  in  the  wall,  stopped  up,  but  not  re- 
plastered  or  papered.  "They"  had  rolled  up  her  rugs 
and  given  them  to  her,  and  she  and  her  four  young 
daughters  had  lived  in  the  upper  stories  during  the  oc- 
cupation, and  seen  war  very  close  from  their  windows. 
The  only  really  valuable  picture,  a  Claude  Lorrain,  I 
think,  was  missing.  In  the  cellars  and  in  the  garden, 
whose  walls  are  still  breached  and  broken,  dead  and 
wounded,  living  and  fighting,  Germans  and  French,  had 
lain. 

The  usual  conjunction  of  elderly  officers  and  young 
aviators  were  there  for  tea.  Then  E.  M.  and  I,  closely 
linked,  threaded  the  black  streets  to  the  Hotel  des  Vosges. 
And  there  is  great  sadness  in  Lorraine  in  autumn. 


CHAPTER  VI 


AT   THE    GUERINS 


October  16th. 

fN  the  park  of  the  chateau,  sitting  on  an  old  stone 
bench  under  yellowing  chestnut-trees. 

Soldiers  are  coming  and  going.  The  chateau  has  been 
for  many  years  a  barracks.  One  guardian  of  the  park, 
of  the  now  so-despised  race  of  gendarmes,  has  walked 
by  three  times,  for  I  have  my  little  note-book  in  my  lap 
and  my  pencil  in  my  hand  and  I  am  plainly  not  of 
Luneville.     He  is  just  passing  me  again,  and  I  say 

"C'est  beau,  le  pare." 

He  answers,  "Perhaps  in  summer,"  evidently  not 
stirred  by  autumnal  Lorraine,  and  then,  "Madame  est 
en  visiteV 

I  answer,  "Yes,  with  Miss  Crocker." 

That  name  being  magic  in  these  parts,  he  salutes  and 
passes  on. 

Of  the  lovely  old  bosquets  where  Stanislas  combined 
his  jets  d'eau,  his  grottes,  his  Chinese  pavilions,  and  his 
parterres,  the  long  avenue  and  the  great  flat  basin  of  the 
fountain,  in  which  black  swans  are  floating,  are  all  that 
remain.  From  -the  end  of  this  avenue  can  be  seen 
the  aviation  field  with  its  great  hangars.  The  low  ter- 
races have  borders  of  autumn  flowers,  dahlias,  chrys- 
anthemums, red  vines,  dead  leaves,  and  moss-grown 
and    charming    statues    of    ancient    love-making  gods, 

167 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

who  came  into  their  own  again  in  those  amorous  days. 
There  is  a  statue  to  M.  Guerin's  poet  son  born  and  dead 
between  two  invasions,  but  a  lovely  eighteenth-century 
statue  of  a  veiled  woman  renders  mou  and  without  ac- 
cent the  flat,  white-marble  shaft  that  commemorates 
his  earthly  span  (i 8 74-1 908).  The  statue  of  Erckmann 
is  also  in  the  nineteenth-century  manner.  Is  the  human 
race  as  uncharming  as  modern  sculptors  would  make 
it?  One  feels  apologetic  toward  the  ages  to  come,  and 
one  wants  to  cry  out  that  we  weren't  so  bad,  after 
all,  and  that  seemingly  soulless  individual  in  a  frock- 
coat  and  baggy  trousers  and  top-hat,  looking  so  unat- 
tractive in  white  marble,  was  really  a  delightful  person, 
an  imaginative  lover,  a  perceptive  intellectual,  and 
witty  to  boot.  He  would  have  been  the  first  to  pro- 
test against  his  memorial ;  and  how  he  would  have  hated 
the  geraniums  and  begonias  planted  at  his  base,  and  the 
wire  fencing! 

Beyond  the  park,  where  the  trees  have  been  cleared 
away,  is  the  brown,  reedy  Vesouze,  a  little  border  of  old 
houses  on  its  banks.  Beyond  is  the  rolling  stretch  of 
forest-covered  hills  and  russet  and  jasper  and  topaz 
fields,  and  above  it  all  the  sunless  and  gray,  but  strange- 
ly luminous,  noonday  heaven  of  autumnal  Lorraine. 

Later. 

Wandered  about  the  town.  Everywhere  charming 
bits  of  autrefois  arrest  the  eye.  Over  one  doorway,  be- 
tween two  angels'  heads  of  pure  Louis  XV,  was  written, 
"Fats  bien,  laisses  dire."  A  little  farther  along,  under 
a  figureless  niche,  "Si  le  coeur  t'en  dit  un  ave  pour  son 
dme."  In  the  window  of  a  pharmacy  near  by,  occupy- 
ing a  good  old  house  with  flat,  gray  facade,  is  a  big 
Luneville  porcelain  jar  bearing  the  words  "Theriaca 
celestis,"    interwoven    among    flowered    scrolls,    and    I 

168 


AT    THE    GUERINS' 

thought  of  eighteenth-century  servants  going  in  for 
herbs  and  various  cures  for  masters  and  mistresses 
having  "vapors." 

The  portal  of  the  church  reminds  me,  with  its  rich, 
wine-colored  tones,  of  the  tezontle  of  the  Mexican  houses 
of  the  viceregal  period.  The  words  over  the  door  are 
"  Au  Dieu  de  Paix"  the  God  that  this  torn  borderland 
seldom  receives,  and  still  rarely  keeps,  and  above  is  a 
figure  of  Chronos,  or  the  Almighty,  I  don't  know 
which. 

A  large  black  marble  slab  without  name  or  date  is 
near  the  door  as  one  passes  in;  underneath  lie  the  re- 
mains of  Voltaire's  divine  Emilie.1  Having  loved  much, 
let  us  hope  much  was  forgiven  her.  The  choir,  pulpit, 
and  confessionals  are  very  pure  Louis  XV.  Over  the 
organ-loft  are  the  words  "Laudate  Deum  in  chordis  et 
organo,"  painted  in  among  Pompadour  knots  which  have 
been  democratically  colored  red,  white,  and  blue,  near 
blue  and  gold  fleurs-de-lys  of  another  epoch. 

Against  the  wall  of  the  facade  is  a  marble  urn  that 
once  contained  the  heart  of  Stanislas,  who  was  very 
devout,  and  left  no  stone  unturned,  though  he  con- 
tinued to  love  not  alone  the  arts,  to  placate  the  final 
judge.  He  was  very  fond  of  music  while  dining,  but 
on  Friday  never  permitted  any  except  that  of  the  harp, 
considered  less  earthly  than  violin  and  clavecin.  He 
never  missed  Mass;   he  was  merciful  to  the  poor  and 

1  Madame  du  Chatelet,  around  whose  death-bed  three  men  met  in  fra- 
ternal tolerance,  Voltaire,  St.-Lambert,  and  her  husband,  was  buried  here 
September  u,  1749.  In  1793  the  tomb  was  profaned,  the  lead  coffin 
stolen,  the  bones  scattered.  In  1858  they  were  gathered  up  and  put  in  a 
modern  coffin  in  which  they  now  repose.  She  said  of  herself:  "J'ai  regit 
dc  Dieu  une  de  ces  Ames  tendres  et  immuables  qui  ne  savent  ni  deguiser  ni  mo- 
derer  leurs  passions;  qui  ne  connaissent  ni  Vaffaiblissement  nile  degofit,  et  dont 
la  tenacite  sait  resister  d,  tout,  mime  a  la  certitude  de  n'itre  pas  aimce.  .  .  . 
Mais  un  cceur  aussi  tendre,  peut-il  itre  rempli  par  un  sentiment  aussi  paisible 
et  aussi  faible  que  I'amitie?" 

169 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

appreciative  of  the  things  of  the  mind.  Not  a  bad  show- 
ing;   one  hopes  he's  happy  somewhere. 

In  one  of  the  side  altars  is  a  Pieta  and  three  long  lists 
of  those  just  dead  for  France,  whose 

graves  are  all  too  young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each; 

and  then,  as  I  sat  quietly  thinking  upon  the  passing  of 
heroes,  Shelley's  immortal  words  kept  sounding  in  my 
ears: 

And  if  the  seal  is  set, 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind, 
Break  it  not  thou!  .  .  . 

From  the  world's  bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become? 

Lunched  at  the  Guerins'.  La  Ford  being  the  only 
means  of  locomotion  in  Luneville,  not  even  an  old  horse 
remaining  to  pull  a  cab,  we  had  to  give  up  the  trip  to 
Baccarat,  and  indeed  any  trip  anywhere.  Delighted  to 
be  able  to  fidner  in  the  old  streets  without  my  umbrella 
being  turned  wrong  side  out. 

Overhead  the  avions  were  thick;  we  counted  twelve 
at  one  time,  some  of  them  flying  so  low  that  we  could 
hear  words.  Observation  airplanes,  bombarding  air- 
planes, the  swift  avions  de  chasse,  going  in  the  direction 
of  the  forest  of  Parroy,  where  the  Germans  are  intrenched 
since  the  retreat  from  Luneville,  September,  19 14. 
Parroy  and  all  that  part  of  the  country  was  completely 
laid  waste  in  1636  by  Richelieu,  who  sent  the  cheerful 
report  to  Louis  XIV  that  "Lorraine  was  reduced  to 
nothing,  and  the  inhabitants  dead  for  the  most  part." 

That  conquest  of  the  unsubstantial  air  seems  the 
greatest  of  all  man's  achievements.     And  as  I  walked 

170 


AT   THE    GUERINS' 

along  there  was  an  almost  perceptible  flinging  of  my 
soul  into  the  heavenly  spaces  and  I  thought  not  on 
battles  and  wrecks  nor  even  of  hungry  children,  but 
rather  of  the  discoverers  of  nature's  secrets,  the  disciples 
of  philosophers,  the  undiscourageable  lovers  of  the  arts, 
who  everywhere  are  in  the  minority,  and  everywhere 
reach  the  heights,  and  everywhere  in  the  end  control 
the  hosts,  even  of  battle.  And  at  the  sudden  dropping 
of  the  sun  over  the  lovely  Lorraine  fields,  become  blue 
with  scarcely  a  hint  of  the  green  and  brown  and  ame- 
thyst of  a  moment  ago,  the  band  of  yellow  fringing  the 
horizon — though  with  me  walked  the  ghosts  of  men  who 
at  the  word  of  command  invaded  or  defended — I  was 
not  sad.  A  lean,  brown,  unexpectant  urchin  entered 
the  town  with  me.  I  gave  him  a  two-franc  piece  and 
a  blessing,  Pax  tibi,  which  last,  from  the  look  in  his 
eyes,  some  part  of  him  understood.  Then  I  turned 
into  the  beautiful  old  house  of  the  mayor  where  gotiter 
and  bridge  had  been  arranged  for  us.  I  rapped  with 
a  large  and  very  bright  wrought-iron  knocker  bearing  the 
date  1 781,  and,  entering,  found  myself  in  a  great  hall- 
way; to  the  left  is  the  escalier  d'honneur,  with  its  beau- 
tiful wrought-iron  balustrade.  I  mounted  it,  and 
passed  through  many  rooms  of  noble  yet  thoroughly 
livable  dimensions.  They  were  filled  with  officers, 
some  women  came  from  their  hospital  service  in  nursing 
garb,  groups  of  bright-eyed  "filles  a  marier,"  and  a  few 
young  aviators.  The  large  salon  has  beautiful  panel- 
ings,  with  heavy  gilt  motifs  of  tambour,  torch,  helmet 
and  shield  in  the  corners.  In  it  was  signed  the  cele- 
brated Traite  de  Luneville,  1801,  and  it  is  all  very 
seigneurial. 

I  found  myself  seated  at  a  table  with  the  mayor, 
General  and  Mme.  de  C,  in  nursing  garb.  I  in- 
vestigated, during  a  couple  of  hours,  the  surprises  ot 

171 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

the  erratic  yet  brilliant  bridge  of  the  mairc  de 
Luneville,  whose  delight  was  to  mystify  his  partner 
as  well  as  the  adversary,  and  who,  without  in  the  least 
deserving  it,  won  every  rubber.  I  had  a  few  bad  "dis- 
tractions," but  who  would  not.  under  that  roof  so  rich 
in  memories? 

During  the  occupation  in  19 14  the  German  generals 
and  high  officers  entering  the  town  were  lodged  on  the 
second  floor  of  the  old  house.  The  same  thing  had 
happened  in  1870. 

We  came  away  in  pitch  darkness  at  7.30,  but  I 
can  now  skip  and  bound  about  the  dark  streets,  with 
the  best  of  them,  no  more  feeling  around  for  curbs, 
which  seem  again  to  be  placed  where  they  are  to  be 
expected. 

Afterward,  dinner  at  M.  Guerin's.     General  and  Mme. 

de  Buyer,  General  ,  M.  Guerin's  two  sons,  one  a 

mitrailleuse  officer  for  the  moment  near  by  at  Blain- 
ville  la  Grande,  the  other  the  student  and  lover  of  the 
arts  of  whom  I  spoke,  and  whose  every  instinct  is  remote 
from  killing.  I  sometimes  wonder  at  the  stillness  of 
men  like  that — except  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  done 
about  it.  General  de  Buyer  told  us  of  lance s-flamme,  of 
flamme-snappes,  of  the  obus  asphyxiants,  which  burst 
without  odor  or  smoke,  but  are  deadly,  all  the  same. 
Then  the  conversation  turned  on  le  conflit  historique 
entre  la  race  germanique  et  la  nation  gauloise  which  had 
begun  before  the  Roman  conquest.  M.  Guerin  told  us 
of  places  where  still  may  be  seen  colossal  walls  and 
thick,  crumbling  towers,  mysterious  witness  of  those 
legendary  conflicts,  just  as  the  Place  des  Cannes,  or 
Place  Brulee,  is  witness  of  those  of  191 7. 

The  younger  Guerin  son  was  preparing  to  go  into 
diplomacy  when  the  war  broke  out.  I  said,  "Perhaps 
we  will  sometime  be  en  poste  together,"  and  a  strange 

172 


AT   THE    GUfiRINS' 

look  that  the  pleasant  dinner  scene  did  not  allow  me 
to  interpret  immediately  came  over  his  face. 

"Peut-etre,"  he  answered,  slowly. 

I  knew  a  moment  afterward  that  that  young  man 
who  loves  his  life  was  thinking,  "if  I  am  alive."  He 
has  seen  so  many  fall.  And  suddenly  came  into  my 
mind  the  lines  of  his  poet  brother,  born  and  dead  be- 
tween two  invasions: 

Nous  sommes,  o  mon  Dieu,  plusieurs  dans  la  cit6t 
A  porter  haul  le  lys  de  la  mysticitS,  .  .  . 

And  for  an  infinitesimal  moment,  in  spite  of  the  pleas- 
ant evening  meal,  my  thoughts,  too,  turned  to  invisibili- 
ties— his  and  my  last  end,  and  our  veiled  destinies. 


CHAPTER   VII 

ACROSS    LORRAINE 

Lun£vij,le,  Tuesday,  October  16th. 

ONE  last  look  at  the  church,  whose  warm  and  lovely- 
towers  with  their  motifs  of  urn  and  scroll  and 
angel  were  shining  pinkly  in  the  morning  light.  Then 
through  the  door  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  built  on  the  site 
of  the  ancient  abbey  of  St.-Remy,  founded  in  the  last 
years  of  the  tenth  century  by  Folmar  de  Luneville  for 
the  repose  of  his  soul  and  of  his  wife's,  and  completely 
done  over  in  the  eighteenth  century.  As  I  turned  in  at 
the  passageway  leading  through  to  the  other  street,  old 
houses  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  plantings  of  holly 
against  the  church  walls,  I  thought  of  the  saying  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  llIl  fait  bon  vivre  sous  la  crosse"  ("It  is 
good  to  live  under  the  bishops"),  and  how  the  peasants 
would  come  in  from  their  hamlets,  through  the  fields 
and  forests,  with  their  tithes.  The  monks  generally 
springing  from  the  people  showed  themselves  more 
understanding  of  their  wants  and  their  miseries,  and 
were  less  apt  to  overtax  them,  having  fewer  needs,  than 
the  lords  with  their  wars,  their  ambitions,  and  their 
grandeurs. 

Then  one  finds  oneself  in  the  garden  of  the  Hotel 
de  Ville,  where  one  doesn't  think  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
for  in  it  is  a  figure  of  a  weeping  woman,  and  on  the 
statue's  base  are  inscribed  the  names  of  young  men 

174 


ACROSS    LORRAINE 

fallen  in  1870.  Life  becomes  suddenly  without 
reason. 

At  the  station.  Vabri  de  homhar dement  pour  permis- 
sionnaires  is  in  an  old  convent  having  a  deep  cellar,  across 
the  railway.  We  carry  our  own  luggage,  resembling 
almost  any  poilu,  and  with  grateful  hearts  think  of 
what  we  left  behind. 

Mont-sur-Meurthe.  Flooding  sun,  many  soldiers,  no 
room  in  the  train.  The  famous  and  now  classic  refrain, 
llFaut  pas  s'en  faire,"  x  floats  about  and  makes  one  think 
how  those  who  wait  also  serve,  and  in  waiting  learn 
patience,  this  new  virtue  of  the  Gaul.  In  regard  to 
virtues,  the  French  seem  to  have  all  those  we  thought 
they  had,  in  addition  to  others  we  never  suspected  them 
of  having. 

A  man  completely  bent  with  grief  follows  two  men 
carrying  a  coffin.  He  himself  carries  a  huge  bead 
wreath,  and  his  head  is  bared.  Whatever  his  sorrow, 
it  is  gone  out  into  the  eternal,  the  immeasurable  Wisdom, 
which  I  thought,  in  sudden  fear,  completely  conceals 
that  which  it  receives. 

Dombasle,  with  its  busy  station  and  its  great  muni- 
tions-factories. Columns  of  smoke,  from  purest  white  to 
darkest  brown,  were  rising  to  the  shining  heavens,  and 
women  in  trousers,  mothers  and  mothers-to-be,  were 
going  to  work  in  the  factories. 

At  Rosieres  immense  camouflage  works,  and  then  the 
railway  skirts  the  great  canal.  A  thin,  heavy-haired, 
very  young  girl  is  drawing  a  huge  canal-boat.  Her 
arms  are  crossed  over  her  breast;  above  them  is  the 
broad   band   by   which   she   tows   that    behemoth,    a 

1"Faut  pas  s'en  faire"  is  one  of  the  most  famous  phrases  of  the 
French  army,  and  has  been  described  as  a  combination  of  two  slang  ex- 
pressions, "  To  keep  your  hair  on,  de  ne  pas  se  faire  des  cheveux,"  and 
"not  to  hurt  your  digestion  by  undue  worry,  de  ne  pas  se  faire  de  la  bile." 

175 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

thousand  times  her  size.  In  accord  with  some  law  of 
matter  it  is  just  possible.  One  thinks  of  the  building 
of  the  Pyramids,  and  of  the  unborn. 

Nancy,  1.15. 

Lunching  at  the  Cafe  Stanislas  and  eating  my  fifth 
macaroon,  "for  remembrance."  The  gold  guipure  of 
the  wrought-iron  work  makes  the  square  seem  to  me 
like  some  lovely  handkerchief  thrown  down  as  a  chal- 
lenge to  memory.     And  I  will  not  forget. 

Later. 

At  the  station,  waiting  for  the  train  to  pull  out.  An 
old  man  attended  to  our  luggage;  he  liked  his  tip  and 
became  talkative  as  he  straightened  our  impedimenta  in 
the  racks.  Three  sons  killed  in  the  war.  Two  at  Ver- 
dun, the  last  and  youngest  at  the  Chemin  des  Dames 
this  summer.  His  toothless  old  mouth  trembled,  and  I 
thought  to  myself  in  sudden  horror,  "God,  is  this 
France?" 

LlVERDUN,  J    o'clock. 

A  vision  of  transfigured  beauty  in  the  afternoon  light. 
Its  high  promontory  aglow,  every  window  a-dazzle.  Its 
ancient  walls,  its  old  chateau,  its  church,  all  seemingly 
made  of  something  pink,  unsubstantial,  shining.  At  the 
foot  of  the  town  flows  the  Moselle  and  there  is  a  second 
shining  moire  ribbon — the  great  canal  leading  from  the 
Marne  to  the  Rhine. 

Toul.  The  gorgeous  towers  of  the  cathedral  are 
a-shine,  too,  above  the  outline  of  the  great  barrack 
buildings.  The  vast  station  is  a  sea  of  blue-clad  wash- 
ing in  and  out  of  trains. 

At  Pagny  we  pick  up  the  Meuse,  la  Mcusc  aux  ligncs 
nonchalantes. 

At  Sorcy,  wide,  shallow  expanses  of  inundation,  and 
reeds  and  trees  grow  out  of  shining  spaces,  and  meadow- 
bounded  flat  horizons  stretch  away,   and  suddenly  it 

176 


ACROSS    LORRAINE 

seems  Oriental,  Japanese,  in  the  pink  light  —  what 
you  will — anything  but  a  historic  river  of  the  European 
war,  flowing  through  the  elegant  and  sorrowful  Lorraine. 

And  then  we  find  ourselves  at  Gondrecourt  in  the 
tip  of  the  acute  angle,  for  still,  to  go  the  straight  road 
between  Nancy  and  Chalons,  we  would  have  to  pass 
Commercy,  daily  bombarded  by  big  German  guns. 

At  Gondrecourt,  about  a  dozen  American  soldiers 
standing  on  the  platform,  several  seeming  to  have  just 
left  their  mothers'  knees.  We  wanted  to  speak  to  the 
nearest  one,  but  feared  we  might  represent  V autre  danger. 
Great  packing-boxes  piled  everywhere  with  "U.  S. 
Army"  stamped  on  them — and  how  fateful  a  destination 
is  this  little  Lorraine  town! 

At  Demanges-aux-Eaux  more  Americans.  An  old 
church,  quite  mauve,  rises  up  seemingly  from  bronze 
waters,  the  houses  of  the  surrounding  village,  blue  and 
gray.  Americans  are  billeted  in  these  wide-doored 
Lorraine  peasant  houses,  or  in  big  stables  whose  en- 
trances are  high  enough  for  great  hay-wagons  to  pass 
through. 

A  talkative  military  person  in  the  compartment  with 
us.  I  thought  at  first  he  was  a  secret  agent,  he  seemed 
to  know  so  little  about  the  country ;  then  I  realized  that 
he  was  only  rather  stupid.  And  he  had  an  uncontrollable 
provincial  curiosity  about  small  things,  and  was  quite 
intrigue  about  his  traveling  companions,  who  seemed 
to  know  all  the  things  he  didn't  know.  He  was  en 
permission,  coming  from  the  forest  of  Parroy,  the  other 
side  of  Luneville,  where  the  French  and  Germans  sit 
within  a  few  yards  of  each  other.  He  was  quite  unin- 
teresting about  it  all,  but  it  wasn't  his  fault,  merely 
the  way  he  was  made.  He  showed  me  his  map  and 
the  zigzagging  German  and  French  lines  in  the  forest, 
and  then  I  got  suddenly  bored  and  stood  in  the  cor- 

177 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

ridor,  and  watched  the  Meuse  get  pink  and  then  purple 
and  then  a  strange  glinting  black.  Down  the  streets  of 
little  villages  would  come  blue-clad  men,  smoking  and 
talking,  or  getting  water  and  stores  for  evening  meals. 
And  then  the  sun  disappeared  behind  the  yellow  poplars, 
and  a  cold,  clear  night  began  to  fall.  Bridges  were 
guarded  by  sentries  with  bayoneted  rifles,  and  old  men 
and  women  and  children  came  in  from  dim  beet-root 
fields,  and  more  khaki-clad  Americans  were  standing 
about  village  streets,  or  cycling  in  the  dusk,  behind 
reeds  in  water,  and  there  were  deepening  forests,  and 
black  ridges  against  the  last  pale  lemon  glow,  and 
then  another  little  town,  Laneuville,  and  two  American 
patrols  marching  up  and  down  with  rifle  on  shoulder. 

And  the  talkative  officer,  who  had  bought  news- 
papers at  Gondrecourt,  tells  of  the  pretty  spy  dancer, 
Mata  Hari,  shot  that  morning  in  the  prison  of  Vincennes 
with  warning  pomp  and  circumstance,  and  of  Bolo  Pasha 
and  V affaire  Turmel,  but  as  soon  as  he  touches  a  subject 
it  loses  all  vestige  of  human  interest. 

" lCe  que  nous  avons  vu  a" Anglais  parterre  d  Combes," 
or,  "Qu'il  faisait  jroid  la  nuit  ou  nous  cedions  la  ligne 
aux  Anglais,"  or,  "  Je  suis  tou jours  la  ou  on  cede  la  ligne, 
they  say  now  the  Americans  will  take  the  line  at  Parroy." 

He  has  been  through  the  whole  war  without  a  scratch 
— -Verdun,  the  Somme,  the  Aisne — and  now  he  spends 
cold,  dark  nights  listening  for  Germans  in  the  forest  of 
Parroy,  and  it  hasn't  helped  a  bit;  and  he  is  one  that 
will  get  through,  when  so  much  of  wise  and  fair  will 
have  been  gathered  to  the  Lord.  In  an  unwonted 
pause  I  asked  him  what  he  was  in  civil  life,  and  he 
answered,  "Fabricant  de  brosses  a  dent."  I  know  it's  all 
right,  and  there  must  be  tooth-brushes,  but  we  had  just 
come  from  gallooned  generals,  prefects,  mayors,  smart 
young  aviators,  and  men  living  in  the  world  of  books. 

178 


ACROSS    LORRAINE 

Blue  mists  came  up  from  the  meadows  and  slipped 

between  the  hills,  and  everywhere  black  trees  grew  out 

of  gold  water. 

Ligny-en-Barrois. 

The  end  of  our  line  at  the  north,  and  there  is  a  Gothic 
church  of  the  thirteenth  century  called  Notre  Dame  des 
Vertus,  and  in  it  is  the  tomb  of  the  Marechale  de  Luxem- 
bourg, dead  in  1695. 

Nanqois-Tronville. 

More  blue  meadow  mists  along  gold  waters,  and  soft 
dark  fringes  of  willows. 

LONGEVILLE. 

The  evening  star  and  spirals  of  smoke  from  little 
houses,  and  blue-clad  men  melting  into  the  twilight, 
and  the  canal  a  golden  band,  with  stampings  of  deepest 
purple  where  tree  shadows  cut  across  it.  Two  American 
soldiers  standing  at  a  road-crossing  looking  up  at  the 
sign-post.  Everywhere  the  Lorraine  twilight  is  shot 
with  khaki-colored  threads  from  over  the  seas — and  the 
three  gray  sisters  spin  the  inexorable  web. 

Bar-le-Duc,  looking  sick  and  sorry  for  itself.  Station 
full  of  broken  glass,  dirt,  and  piles  of  demolished  masonry. 
The  evening  star  hangs  above  the  older  towm  on  the  hill. 
No  time  to  get  out  to  see  how  the  canteen  work  is  going 
on;  but  two  obliging  station  employees  gave  me  news. 
A  whole  quarter  of  the  town  by  the  river,  near  the  Hotel 
du  Commerce  et  de  Metz,  of  unsanctified  memory,  was 
destroyed  ten  days  ago,  by  an  air  raid. 

I  asked  if  anything  had  happened  to  the  church  of 
St. -Peter,  for  I  thought  of  the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  Ligier  Ri- 
chier,  Rene  de  Chalons,1  standing  in  its  dim  space,  hold- 
ing his  heart  aloft  in  his  left  hand,  eternal  offering  to  his 

1  Rene  de  Chalons,  Prince  of  Orange,  killed  in  1544,  at  the  siege  of  St.- 
Dizier.  The  genius  of  Ligier  Richier  has  represented  him  according  to 
his  wish,  as  his  body  might  have  appeared  three  years  after  death. 

179 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

first  wife,  Louise  of  Lorraine.  How  his  widow,  Philippe 
de  Gueldre,  felt  about  this  before  she  was  laid  out  in 
the  garb  of  the  Poor  Clares  I  don't  know. 

No  longer  any  night  work  in  the  canteen,  no  lights 
being  permitted.  Our  train  unlighted,  too.  New  and 
larger  signs  indicating  cellars  and  shelters  everywhere. 
Black  moving  shapes  of  camions  along  the  road,  and  the 
evening  star  following  us  along  the  top  of  the  hill  of 
Bar.     A  squad  of  Annamites  quitting  their  work  on  the 

road. 

En  ces  armecs  singulibres 
Oil  I'Annam  casse  dcs  pierres 
Sur  la  route  de  Verdun. 

Revigny. 
Portentous  dark  shapes  of  roofless  houses  and  detach- 
ments of  blue-clad  men  going  down  a  winding  road, 
one  with  the  blue  twilight.  The  station  dim,  the  town 
completely  dark,  and  the  vine-planted  hills  only  soft 
masses;  the  evening  star  still  following  us,  though  she 
is  so  close  to  the  ridge  that  in  a  few  minutes  she  will 
drop  behind  it.  Oh,  this  passing  of  the  evening  star  in 
a  war — autumn  behind  French  hills! 

Vitry-le-Francois,  5.4$. 
Founded  by  Francois  Premier  near  the  old  town  which 
was  burned  with  its  church  full  of  worshipers,  in  a  fit  of 
anger  by  Louis  VII  during  his  war  with  the  Count  of 
Champagne.  To  expiate  this  crime  he  undertook  the 
Second  Crusade.  Much  black  ribbon  of  canal  knotted 
about,  one  end  of  which  leads  from  the  heart  of  France 
to  the  Rhine.  An  endless  train  of  troops  going  to  the 
front,  men  pressed  together,  sardine-  and  herring-like, 
in  each  compartment — it  made  my  soul  sick — just  hu- 
man masses  weighed  down  by  accoutrement  and  literally 
wedged  in.     A  lively  dispute  between  a  thick-set  poilu 

1S0 


ACROSS    LORRAINE 

and  one  of  the  station  employees  on  behalf  of  a  slight, 
blond,  very  young  soldier. 

"Quoi,  votes  osez  engueuler  un  poilu  de  quinze  ans?" 
And  the  following  crescendo  mounts  to  the  broken 
panes  of  the  station  roof,   "Embusqiie,  cochon,  salaud, 
vache!"  1 

There  was  no  answer  of  protest  from  the  official. 
And  Vitry-le-Francois  is  where  Napoleon  almost  took 
prisoner  the  Emperor  of  Russia,  the  King  of  Prussia, 
and  the  Austrian  General  Schwarzenberg  in  1814,  and 
in  1 9 14  it  was  bombarded  by  the  Germans,  and  now 
American  troops  pour  through  it. 
13  *  Slacker,  pig,  dirty-one,  cowi 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    CHALONS    CANTEEN 

H6tel  de  la  Haute  Mere  Dieu,  Chalons,  October  17th,  1.30  a.m. 

LODGED  at  last  with  the  "High  Mother  of  God." 
'  On  arriving,  dined  in  a  low-ceilinged,  dingy,  dowdy 
room,  but  the  acetylene  lights,  the  uniforms  and  decora- 
tions of  the  officers,  made  something  brilliant,  which  half 
veiled  the  knowledge  of  the  dark  night  outside,  the  ap- 
proaching winter,  the  continuing  war. 

Afterward,  I  slipped  out  with  my  little  electric  lamp, 
through  the  Place  de  la  Republique,  almost  empty ;  low 
and  splendid  stars  hung  over  the  town.  In  the  rue 
des  Lombards,  St.-Alpin  was  a  dark  mass,  and  from 
its  tower  the  hour  was  striking  a  quarter  to  nine 
o'clock. 

I  turned  into  the  long,  perfectly  black  rue  de  Marne. 
Not  a  single  light,  nor  any  passer-by.  I  flashed  my  lit- 
tle lamp  to  find  the  curb.  There  came  a  click  of  wooden- 
soled  shoes  from  a  side  street,  and  a  thick  voice  said, 
"Ah,  la  dame,  pourquoi  si  vite?"  I  passed  on  like  the 
wind,  trembling,  down  the  deserted  street,  but  when  I 
flashed  the  lamp  to  find  another  curb,  something  heavy 
and  stumbling  got  nearer.  And  then  I  didn't  dare  to 
turn  the  light  on,  and  I  took  the  wrong  turning,  and 
found  myself  in  what  seemed  a  wilderness  of  mud  and 
trees,  with  the  click  of  those  following  wooden-soled 
feet  behind,   and  any  woman  who  has  been  terrified, 

182 


THE    CHALONS    CANTEEN 

she  scarcely  knows  why,  will  understand.  Finally  I 
stopped  behind  a  dark  mass  of  trees,  with  something 
sucking  about  in  the  mud,  and  mumbling  half -suspected 
words,  and  finally  retreating. 

At  that  moment  a  soldier  appeared,  a  gigantic  shadow 
of  himself  as  he  struck  a  match  to  light  his  cigarette, 
and  I  asked: 

"Is  this  the  rue  du  Port  de  Marne?" 

He  answers,  "You  have  missed  your  way;  you  are 
by  the  canal,"  and  he  puts  me  onto  the  road  again, 
and  then  I  turn  and  grope  my  way  to  the  little  house 
by  the  Marne. 

Neither  Miss  Nott  nor  Miss  Mitchell  is  there,  so  I  de- 
part again,  going  over  the  great  Marne  bridge  to  the 
station.  Though  I  can  see  nothing,  I  hear  the  regu- 
lar practised  tread  of  a  marching  squad,  and  when  I 
flash  my  lamp  to  find  the  curb,  a  little  detachment  looms 
up  unmeasurably  big  and  distorted,  and  the  horizon 
blue  becomes  that  ghostly  gray. 

In  the  canteen  a  thousand  men  at  least.  Am  quite 
dazzled  by  the  splendor  of  the  installation.  Warm  wel- 
come from  Miss  Nott  and  Miss  Mitchell,  with  the  light 
of  a  very  understandable  pride  in  their  eyes.  Go  be- 
hind the  long  counter,  then  through  the  kitchen  to  the 
little  dressing-room;  take  off  my  hat,  put  on  a  long 
apron,  twist  my  pale-blue  chiffon  scarf  about  my  head 
and  am  ready.  As  I  look  out  over  the  big  room  I 
feel  that  in  the  whole  world  it  is  the  only  place  to  be. 
Around  me  surged  those  blue  waves;  the  light  caught 
helmets  and  drinking-cups ;  there  was  the  mist  of 
breath  and  smoke;  the  familiar  sound  of  laughing,  dis- 
puting, humming.  That  strange  atmosphere  of  fatality 
hung  over  each  and  every  one,  yet  with  a  merciless  con- 
fusing of  destinies  in  the  extreme  anonymity  of  it  all. 

Came  away  at  11.30  enveloped  in  a  strange  sidereal 

183 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

light,  the  stars  still  more  splendid  as  the  night  deep- 
ened. Even  the  memory  of  tropical  constellations 
vaulting  high  altitudes  was  dimmed.  The  Great  Bear 
lay  over  the  left  of  the  Marne  bridge,  and  on  the  other 
horizon,  over  the  Promenade  du  Jard,  where  I  suddenly 
remembered  that  St. -Bernard  had  preached  the  crusade 
in  presence  of  Pope  Eugene  and  Charles  VII,  was  Orion, 
so  bright  that  he  alone  could  have  lighted  the  town  of 
the  Catalaunian  fields,  and  Jupiter  seemed  like  a  dis- 
tant sun,  under  the  soft  blur  of  the  Pleiades.  The  river 
was  mysterious,  yet  personal  with  its  new  mantle  of 
history  wrapping  it  sadly,  yet  tenderly,  and  with  much 
glory. 

Then  I  was  again  in  the  still,  dark,  long  street;  no 
passers-by,  no  lights  from  any  window,  the  clock  of 
St.-Alpin  striking  midnight,  and  Orion  concealed  to 
his  belt  by  the  houses  of  the  Place  de  la  Republique. 
There  was  some  deep  stirring  of  my  heart  as  I  turned  in 
at  the  door  of  La  Haute  Mere  Dieu,  leaving  the  gor- 
geous heavens  to  stretch  over  the  wide  plain  of  Chalons, 
where  the  hosts  of  Attila  were  defeated,  where  the  great, 
misty,  tragic,  glorious  history  of  Champagne  and  Lor- 
raine rolls  itself  out.  Now  above  it  all  is  the  whir  of 
aeros  de  chasse,  and  a  faint,  very  faint  booming  of  can- 
non. The  Chalons  plain  continues  to  give  me  the 
"creeps."  It  is  haunting  and  suggestive  in  the  same 
way  that  the  Roman  Campagna  is  haunting  and  sug- 
gestive, though  the  great  bare  stretch,  with  its  bald, 
chalky  scarrings,  its  dull  spots  of  pine  woods,  its  dust 
or  mud,  has  none  of  the  material  beauty  of  the  Cam- 
pagna. Doubtless  I'm  within  the  folds  of  the  mantle 
of  the  concentrated,  continuous  human  passions  that 
cover  it. 

I  trod   as   lightly  as  I  could   through  a   resounding 

corridor,  having  a  profound  regard  for  all  sleeping  things, 

184 


THE    CHALONS    CANTEEN 

past  many  leather  leggings  and  spurred  boots  outside  of 
silent  doors. 

When  I  left  the  canteen,  the  guard,  in  answer  to  my 
cry,  "Sentinelle!"  said,  as  he  opened  the  gate,  "Ce  n'est 
pas  commc  a  Verdun,  ou  Von  ne  passe  pas";  and  then, 
"Bonsoir,  Mces."  It  was  so  easily  and  gracefully  said 
in  the  inimitable  French  way. 

October  17th,  7.30  a.m. 

Tea,  a  lukewarm  pale-gray  beverage,  with  some  still 
crisp  leaves  afloat  on  the  top.  I  would  have  been  un- 
grateful if  I  had  not  thought  of  the  Hotel  des  Vosges. 
Mrs.  Church,  fresh  and  strong  as  the  morning,  though 
just  back  from  night  shift,  boiled  some  water  for  me 
and  I  blessed  her.  The  bleakness  of  this  room  is  in- 
describable. Two  lithographs  of  the  "Angelus"  and 
"Lcs  Glaneurs"  but  add  to  the  desolation.  A  red-and- 
yellow  striped  paper  on  the  walls;  on  the  floor  a  worn 
square  of  Brussels  carpet;  brown  woolen  curtains; 
shutters  with  slats  askew;  a  large  mahogany  chest  of 
drawers;  a  grayish  dimity  cover  to  the  feather  bed, 
with  machine-stitched  motifs  showing  its  ugly  yellow 
case  underneath;  linen  sheets,  large,  thick,  and  clean — ■ 
and  you  have  almost  any  room  of  La  Haute  Mere  Dieu. 
Except  Mrs.  C.'s  with  its  extraordinary  bed,  painted 
cream-color,  having  large  "Empirish"  corners  formed 
by  pale  green  and  gilt  Egyptian  unduly  voluptuous 
Sphinx-like  figures,  and  a  brownish-red  plush  baldaquin 
from  which  depend  some  yellowish-brown  curtains;  the 
brown  carpet  with  purplish  flowers  is  a  protest  between 
the  two,  and  the  rest  of  the  room  a  riot  of  gilt  mirrors. 
It's  a  room  one  couldn't  forget,  and  why  provincial 
hotels  cling  so  to  brown  upholstery  I  don't  know.  They 
give  the  effect  of  being  old  and  dirty  even  when  they 
are — perhaps — new. 

The  corridor  has  been  a  sounding-board  since  dawn, 

185 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

and  all  during  the  night  camions  were  being  driven  over 
the  cobblestones,  and  motor  horns  rent  the  darkness. 
My  room  looks  out  over  an  old  garden.  A  tall,  dead 
tree-trunk  has  immemorial  ivy  clinging  to  it,  and  there 
is  an  old  round  well,  half  covered,  and  beyond  the  gate, 
with  ivy  and  moss-grown  urns,  is  a  street  that  would 
have  been  quiet  except  for  the  camions;  and  I  can  see 
a  row  of  distinguished-looking,  plain-f  acaded  gray  houses 
of  another  century,  opposite. 

The  German  General  Staff  was  lodged  here  before  the 
battle  of  the  Marne,  the  chambermaid  told  me,  with  a 
reminiscential  gleam  in  her  eyes. 

But  you  see  how  any  one's  personal  history,  his  little 

wants,  his  little  habits,  are  ground  out  into  something 

quite  different  by  the  war-machine.     The  only  thing 

any  one  asks  is  strength  to  get  through  what  he  has  to 

do.     He  doesn't  demand  to  get  through  in  any  special 

way — just  get  through — where  so  many  don't.     Not  to 

be  so  cold  that  you  can't  use  your  hands  or  your  mind, 

not  to  be  so  tired  that  you  can't  stand,  not  to  be  so 

hungry  that  you  are  faint  and  useless,  not  to  go  without 

sleep   till  you  don't  care  what  happens   to  anybody, 

especially  yourself.     Life  is  fairly  simple,  and  somehow 

very  satisfactory,  on  such  a  basis. 

11.30  p.m. 

A  long  day,  with  the  exception  of  luncheon  at  the 
house  on  the  Marne  and  a  talk  in  the  garden,  where 
Mrs.  Corbin  and  I  sat  for  a  while  under  the  yellow 
chestnut-tree,  looking  out  on  the  brimming,  jade-colored, 
slow-flowing  Marne,  talking  of  destinies,  and  the  illu- 
sion of  free  will,  by  which,  however,  all  these  high  deeds 
which  we  witness  are  done.  And  it  seems  to  me  the 
thing  called  Destiny  resides  somewhere.  It  isn't  a  pure- 
ly subjective  affair,  created  out  of  the  combination  of 
qualities  and  opportunities  of  each,  rather  something 

186 


THE    CHALONS    CANTEEN 

definite  and  operative  and  immutable;  but  that  may 
only  be  the  way  I  feel  about  it  now.  I  am  overcome 
all  the  time  by  the  relativity  of  everything,  even  of 
truth. 

The  little  white  birch-tree  has  no  leaves,  the  butter- 
flies are  gone,  and  winter  is  close  upon  the  war-world. 
The  gardener  has  been  returned  to  his  home.  What 
of  his  sons,  I  wonder?     He  has  a  tender  heart. 

Miss  Stanton  lives  in  the  little  yellow  room  with  the 
niche  and  the  emanations.  Now  she  looks  out  on  yel- 
lowing trees;  yellow  pumpkins  lie  in  the  little  wet 
garden ;  there  is  a  border  of  yellow  and  red  nasturtiums 
and  dahlias.  It's  all  like  some  stage-setting.  When  I 
said  to  her,  "I  hear  you  have  the  little  room  with  the 
emanations,"  she  answered,  "There  must  be  something 
about  it ;  for  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  am  not  comfort- 
able, I  don't  dislike  it." 

I  wondered  again  what  soul  had  inhabited  within 
those  four  walls  and  if  the  niche  had  been  an  altar, 
and  to  what  god,  as  I  walked  along  in  a  sudden  cold 
mist  that  began  to  envelope  Chalons. 

Since  10  o'clock. 

I  have  been  swept  about  by  varying  tides  of  blue- 
clad  men.  Some  thought  the  cantine  epatante,  others 
thought  sadly  and"  remarked  loudly  that  so  much  money 
being  spent  on  an  installation  meant  that  the  war  was 
going  to  last  indefinitely.  "C'est  trop  long,"  one  thin, 
blond  man,  with  deep-set  eyes  and  bright  spots  on  his 
cheeks,  kept  repeating,  till  one  of  his  friends  in  unrepeat- 
able poilu  terms  told  him  to  "leave  the  camp." 

Concert  in  the  afternoon,  the  usual  number  of  ex- 
tremely good  diseurs.  In  the  Salle  de  Recreation,  where 
it  was  held,  are  reclining-chairs  and  writing-tables. 
When  I  told  one  not  very  young  poilu  that  there  was 

187 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

such  a  heaven,  he,  too,  answered,  "Alors  la  guerre  va 
durer  longtemps,  si  Von  fait  tout  ccla  pour  ceux  qui 
restent." 

Lieutenant  Tonzin  has  converted  those  old  railway- 
sheds  into  something  most  artistic.  The  walls  are 
painted  cream  with  strips  of  pale  blue;  conventionalized 
fruit-filled  baskets  and  designs  of  flowery  wreaths  deco- 
rate them  at  intervals.  The  great  roof  has  drapings 
of  white  muslin,  and  square,  engarlanded  shades  make 
the  light  shine  softly  on  the  blue-clad  men  coming  and 
going,  coming  and  going. 

On  the  counter  are  small  green  bushes.  One  home- 
sick-eyed gardener  poilu  from  Marseilles,  having  felt 
them,  wondered  what  they  would  do  if  watered.  "Les 
pauvres!  Chez  nous  sont  grands  comme  ga,"  and  he 
raised  his  hand  toward  the  roof. 

"Toi,  grand  serin,"  remarked  his  comrade;  "tu  vois 
tout  tou jours  dix  fois  grandeur  naturelle." 

Whereupon  they  began  the  inevitable  dispute.  I 
heard  the  words  "gueuleton,"  "qu'est-ce  que  fas  au  bee," 
and  the  Marseillais  finally  calling  out,  as  they  re- 
treated, that  he  thanked  God  he  hadn't  been  born  at 
Caen. 

All  is  so  orderly  and  the  jokes  mostly  relatable.  Only 
when  they  are  somewhat  allumes  do  they  get  on  the 
subject  of  the  eternal  feminine,  and  then  the  dots  are 
put  on  the  i's,  regarding  her  r61e  on  the  natural  plane. 
But  even  then  there  is  generally  some  copain  to  say, 
"Ferme  ta  gueule,"  or  "Que  veux-tu  que  les  mees  sachent 
de  tout  celaV  The  legend  being  that  the  canteens  are 
served  almost  exclusively  by  vestals. 

When  holding  out  their  "quarts,"  they  often  ask, 
longingly,  "Pas  de  cogneau;  pas  de  gniole?"  l  When  I 
answered  once,  "Pas  de  pinard2  ici,"  the  poilu  cried 

1  Cognac.  2  wine. 

188 


THE    CHALONS    CANTEEN 

back,  "Mais  le  'whisk'!  Vous  en  avez  toujours  chez 
vous!"     Another  delicate  Anglo-Saxon  reference. 

Late,  in  between  one  of  the  train  rushes,  two  men 
came  in,  violently  disputing  as  they  stood  at  the 
counter : 

"C'est  une  guerre  diplomatique,  je  te  dis,  cochon,  va." 

"Qu'est-ce  que  tu  dts  Id,  moi,  je  te  dis,  sale  type,  que  c'est 
une  guerre  qui  ne  mine  d  rien!" 

"C'est  la  mime  chose,  nom  de nom  ae t'es 

bete,  espice  d'acrobate,"  etc.,  etc. 

Another  comes  in  saying,  loudly: 

"Cette  sacree  guerre,  cette  sacree  guerre!  Qu'est-ce  que 
cela  me  fait  que  je  sois  boche  ou  Francois?  Suis  de  Roubaix, 
moi,  il  me  faut  manger  du  pain  sec  le  reste  de  mes  jours 
—^moi  et  ma  femme  et  mes  cinq  enfants." 

When  I  gave  him  his  cup  of  steaming  jus  (coffee),  he 
poured  into  it,  from  his  bidon,  a  few  drops  of  gniole,  and 
by  the  time  he  got  to  the  door  he  was  singing  the  well- 
known  refrain: 

Je  fus  vaccine", 

InocuU, 
Quatr'  jois  pique  .  .  . 

Then  a  train  arrived,  the  great  room  was  flooded 
again,  and  no  time  for  anything  except  to  ask,  "Avez- 
vous  votre  quart?"  (the  tin  cup)  our  bowls  having  given  out 
during  the  rush;  or,  "Prenez  votre  billet  a  la  caisse,"  or,  in 
order  to  relieve  the  congestion  at  la  caisse,  one  takes 
their  ten  centimes  and  pours  and  pours  and  pours,  or 
indicates  the  end  of  the  counter,  where  the  repas  complet, 
consisting  of  soup,  meat,  vegetable,  and  salad,  is  served. 
Boudin  with  potatoes  (a  hundred  yards  of  this  dark 
"blood-sausage,"  curled  up  in  boxes  before  being  cooked, 
is  an  awful  sight),  or  hash  with  potatoes,  they  love,  but 
one  and  all  hate  macaroni  with  a  deep  hatred.     Some- 

189 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

times  it  is  served  when  the  potatoes  give  out,  and  they 
don't  conceal  their  distaste.  They  get  too  much  cold 
macaroni  in  the  trenches. 

It's  always  the  ones  who  speak  English  who  have  the 
worst  manners.  One  rather  nice-looking  individual 
came  up  to  the  repas  complet  counter,  saying:  "I'm  in 
a  'urry .  Got  no  waiters  ?  Step  live' . ' '  No  wwcorrupted 
Frenchman,  even  half -seas  over,  would  dream  of  such 
a  form  of  address ! 

Lots  of  tiny,  yellow  Annamites  in  to-day,  sounding  just 
the  way  they  look  and  looking  just  the  way  they  sound. 
One  brought  back  his  salad-plate  (accidents  will  happen 
in  the  best  canteens)  with  a  little  worm  a-move  upon  its 
edge,  and  he  made  some  unintelligible  sounds.  When 
I  thoughtlessly  asked  a  poilu  what  he  was  saying,  the 
poilu,  quite  unembarrassed,  proceeded  "to  tell  me,  but 
/  can't  tell  you!     It  must  go  no  further. 

Lunched  at  the  house  by  the  Marne,  where  we  talk 
American  politics  for  a  change,  then  back.  One  goes, 
one  returns,  and  still  they  flood  the  vast  room,  and  one 
continues  the  book  of  the  cantine,  bound  in  its  horizon 
blue,  with  its  blood-stained,  tear-sealed  pages. 

A  quite  peculiar  warming  of  the  heart  when  one's  own 
khaki-clad  men  come  in.  Early  in  the  afternoon  an 
American  appeared  at  the  counter,  accompanied  by  a 
French  corporal.  He  had  completely  forgotten  the 
name  of  his  town,  was  driving  a  camion,  and  said,  with 
a  distressed  air,  "If  I  could  only  find  a  certain  spot  in 
town,  I  could  get  back";  and  then  added,  with  a  grin, 
"I  suppose  you  think  I'm  like  the  doctor  that  could 
cure  fits;  but  I've  got  to  get  the  fits  before  I  can  do 
anything  else,  and  I'm  late  already,"  he  finished,  anx- 
iously. After  giving  various  descriptions  of  various 
localities  I  hit  on  the  Place  de  la  Republique,  "with  a 
fountain  with  three  women?"  and  as  I  explained  to  the 

190 


THE    CHALONS    CANTEEN 

under-officer,    he   said,    "You've   saved   little   Willie's 
life,"  and  hurried  out. 

The  names  seem  the  difficult  part.  One  of  them, 
when  I  asked  where  he  was  billeted,  said : 

"That's  one  on  me;  it's  got  three  names;  but"— and 
he  beckoned  to  a  poilu  standing  near — "this  is  a  pal  of 
mine.  When  I  give  him  three  knocks  on  the  shoulder 
he  gives  the  name." 

The  poilu  didn't  wait  for  even  the  first  knock  before 
he  said,  "Demanges-aux-Eaux,"  and  then  the  American 
treated  him  to  chocolate  and  offered  him  a  "Lucky- 
Strike"  cigarette  and  began  some  exotic  pronunciation 
of  Demanges-aux-Eaux. 

There's  always  one  special  thing  in  every  situation  in 
life  that  comes  hard.  Now  I  must  confess  that  when- 
ever I  have  to  take  a  damp,  dark-brown  cloth  in  my  hand 
and  mop  up  puddles  of  spilled  chocolate  and  coffee  from 
the  tiled  counter,  I  feel  an  invincible  repugnance.  To- 
day four  Americans  came  in  together.  A  nice,  tall, 
evidently  perceptive  one  said,  unexpectedly: 

"Just  give  me  that  rag." 

As  I  gratefully  surrendered  the  clammy  thing  he 
continued : 

"I  will  be  here  all  the  afternoon  and  you'll  find  me 
mopping  any  time  you  like."  He  subsequently  ordered 
four  fried  eggs  apiece  for  himself  and  a  poilu,  and  then 
took  a  whole  box  of  the  little  sweet  round  biscuits  that 
we  were  selling  rather  gingerly  by  twos  and  threes,  came 
back  from  time  to  time  for  bowls  of  chocolate,  when  he 
would  cheerfully  mop  the  counter  for  me.     Finally  I  said : 

"What  is  your  name?" 

And  he  answered:  "Smith.  There're  a  few  of  us," 
he  added,  and  then  with  a  twinkle,  "but  I'm  John. 
Now  what  do  you  say  to  a  swap?" 

"I'm  Mrs.  O'Shaughnessy." 

191 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

"I  bet  I  spot  you.  I  was  in  Mexico  last  summer. 
Say,  wasn't  your  husband  mixed  up  with  old  Huerta?" 

I  had  to  answer  "yes"  to  this  version  of  history. 

"I  wasn't  much  on  dust  when  I  was  down  there,  but 
there's  too  much  water  here.  However,"  he  continued, 
cheerfully,  "we've  got  to  tin  the  Teut  or  he'll  tin  us." 
Then  he  added,  in  a  confidential  voice:  "What  do  you 
think  of  the  war?     I  get  mixed  sometimes." 

I  had  noticed  a  small  amethyst  ring  in  the  shape  of 
a  pansy  on  one  of  his  large  fingers  as  he  was  mopping, 
so,  after  disposing  of  his  question  in  the  briefest  and 
most  effective  way  by  remarking  that  it  was  "up  to 
us  all"  to  do  every  bit  we  could  to  win  the  war,  to 
which  he  agreed,  I  asked: 

"Are  you  engaged?" 

"To  one  beaut,"  he  answered,  without  an  instant's 
hesitation.  "Met  her  in  San  Antonio  last  summer, 
but  I  guess  she's  the  kind  that  waits.  Gee!  they  were 
around  her  like  flies,  but  I  shoo'd  'em  all  off." 

And  he  pulled  out  the  picture  of  a  girl  with  large  dark 
eyes  half  hidden  in  love-locks,  and  showing  a  lot  of 
white  teeth  between  pleasure-ready  lips.  What  ap- 
peared of  her  person  was  clad  in  the  most  "peek-a- 
boo"  of  blouses,  and  there  was  a  twist  of  white  tulle 
about  it  all.  I  wondered  if  she  was  the  "kind  that 
waits."  I  had  a  sudden  affection  for  John  Smith,  think- 
ing, however,  as  he  passed  out  of  the  door,  that  his 
identification  disk  would  be  more  definite  than  his 
name,  and  then,  for  an  instant,  I  pondered  on  the 
supremely  elemental  thing  he's  come  for. 

Damp,  cold  night  had  fallen  on  Chalons,  but  the 
canteen  was  warm  and  cheery,  and  the  men  who  knew 
little  of  warmth  and  cheer  were  sitting  about  in  a  mo- 
ment's comfort,  and  there  came  to  mind  a  canteen  I 
know  (oh,  far  away!)  which  is  presided  over  by  a  lady 

192 


THE    CHALONS    CANTEEN 

with  a  mustache  like  a  majordomo,  and  there  are  no 
night  hours  in  her  canteen.  She  rings  an  inexorable 
bell  at  the  chaste  hour  of  9.30,  and,  rainy  or  dry,  warm 
or  cold,  out  they  go,  the  poilus.  Some  one  with  a  com- 
passionate heart  remarked  to  one  of  the  men  on  a  pour- 
ing night,  as  the  bell  was  ringing,  "I  am  sorry  you  must 
go."  He  answered,  with  a  glance  at  the  ringer  and  a 
twist  of  his  mustache:  "It's  well  to  choose  them  that 
way.  It  quiets  us."  And  he  went  off  singing,  "Depuis 
le  jour  oil  je  me  suis  donne'e."     It  was  too  funny.  .  .  . 

Friday,  October  igth. 

A  tightening  of  the  heart  at  leaving  that  flooding 
hall — going  out  again  to  pick  up  the  personal  life,  in- 
consequential as  it  now  seems.  One  is  hypnotized  by 
the  stream  of  humanity,  drawn  into  its  vortex,  finally 
rushing  along  with  it,  who  knows  whence  or  whither. 
I  jerked  myself  back  by  saying,  "This  is  not  my  bit," 
and,  "Each  one  to  his  own."  There  are  many  ways  of 
helping  win  the  war. 

I  saw  for  a  moment  General  Goigoux,  just  back  from 
his  permission,  so  solicitous  for  the  welfare  of  his  men, 
so  pleased  with  the  results  of  the  canteen,  smiling  as  he 
said  to  me: 

"Eh  bien,  Madame,  cela  a  fait  des  progrks  depuis  voire 
dernikre  visile" 

There  is  a  quite  wonderful  entente,  and  appreciation, 
on  both  sides  in  Chalons. 

I  went  back  into  the  canteen,  and  found  some  poilus 
in  fits  of  laughter  over  a  black  cat.  Now  what  a  black 
cat  evokes  in  the  mind  of  the  poilu  I  can  only  suspect; 
I  don't  quite  know.  Anyway,  it's  something  that 
"makes  to  laugh";  and  our  black  cat,  strayed  in  weeks 
ago  from  who  knows  where,  and  perched  near  a  de- 
voted  lady  of  unmistakable  respectability,   lately   ar- 

193 


MY    LORRAINE    JOURNAL 

rived  to  help  "save  France,"  furthermore  enveloped  in  a 
gray  sweater  (it's  cold  and  draughty  where  she  sits  be- 
hind the  small  aperture  selling  tickets  for  coffee,  choco- 
late, and  repas  complets),  and  not  in  her  nature  playful, 
seems  somehow  suggestive  to  the  poilu.  Even  when  it 
perches  on  the  counter  by  the  coffee-jugs  it's  the  same. 
We  don't  like  to  get  rid  of  it;  it's  supposed  to  bring 
good  luck.  However,  enough,  or  perhaps  too  little, 
about  the  black  cat. 

There  is  a  surveillant  supposed  to  keep  order.  He  is 
rarely  needed,  and  if  he  does  say  anything,  he  gets  an 
"Embusque'!"  thrown  at  him,  between  the  eyes.  It's 
not  the  day  of  the  civilian  employee.  This  one  spends 
a  good  deal  of  time  eating  and  not  paying,  and  nobody 
loves  him.  There  is  a  favorite  story  of  the  poilu  salut- 
ing a  common  or  garden  variety  of  policeman,  thinking 
he  was  a  corporal ;  and  when  telling  of  his  mistake  after- 
ward he  called  it  "le  plus  malheureux  jour  demavie." 

A  hitch  in  the  serving  of  the  complete  repasts.  I 
looked  into  the  kitchen  to  see  if  things  couldn't  be  hur- 
ried up.  The  group  that  met  my  eyes,  of  the  cook 
and  her  assistant  wrestling  with  yards  of  blood-sausage, 
could  have  been  the  female  pendant  to  the  Laocoon. 
It  was  awful.  As  I  turned  back  to  the  counter  I  heard 
this  bit  of  conversation  between  two  poilus  waiting  for 
their  meal: 

"Tu  sais,  when  a  Canadian  sees  wood  he  goes  wild. 
He'll  chop  up  anything  from  a  roadside  cross  to  a  baby- 
carriage.     They  say  it  is  because  of  his  forests.     At 

last  spring  they  took  the  balusters  out  of  the  house 

where  they  were  quartered,  and  that  pretty  Jeanne 
you've  heard  about — un  amour,  je  te  dis — fell  down  in 
the  dark  and  was  killed." 

"Each  one  has  his  manie,"  answered  his  friend,  in 
perfect  tolerance.     "Mais  mot,  je  ne  toucher ais  pas  a 

194 


THE    CHALONS    CANTEEN 

une  croix."  And  he  proceeded  to  cross  himself  at  the 
bare  thought. 

A  colonel  whose  name  I  don't  remember  took  me  into 
the  garden  to  see  the  kiosks  that  I  had  so  often  indicated 
when  the  men  asked  for  pinard  or  tabac.  The  guignol 
that  I  had  seen  at  the  camouflage  grounds  in  July  was 
in  place;  beyond  was  the  huge  bomb-proof  shelter  built 
by  German  prisoners  to  contain  2,000  men  in  case  of 
avion  attack.  We  took  a  few  steps  into  its  black,  moist 
intricacies.  As  I  came  up  I  found  myself  close  to  a 
group  of  some  thirty  German  prisoners  being  marched 
past  to  work  on  a  cement  emplacement  for  a  gun,  the 
large  P.  G.1  stamped  on  their  backs,  and  wearing  their 
small  round  caps  with  the  red  stripe,  and  any  kind  of 
clothes.  I  felt  for  a  moment  like  an  illustration  for 
Caesar's  Commentaries,  or  some  sort  of  a  Roman  watch- 
ing northern  prisoners  being  marched  by. 

The  officer  who  showed  me  about  was  one  of  the 
twenty-seven  men  who  escaped  from  the  Fort  de  Vaux, 
and  had  lost  his  only  child  on  Hill  304. 

"I  was  wounded,  and  I'm  not  yet  worth  much,  which 
is  why  I  am  here.  My  boy  was  only  twenty-one — 
mais  c'e'tait  une  personne  faite — a  leader  of  men.  All, 
with  those  qualities,  go;  I  am  not  alone,  alas!  in  my 
douleur." 

And  that  is  one  of  the  beautiful  things  of  this  sorrow- 
ful epoch.  Each  thinks  upon  the  others'  grief.  .  .  . 
And  then  I  left  it  all. 

The  jade-colored  Marne  is  flat,  eddyless,  brimming 
over  with  its  autumn  rains,  the  reeds  have  disappeared, 
the  trunks  of  the  willows  are  hidden.  Over  the  gray 
bridge  flows,  unabated,  that  other  stream  of  war  and 
life.  Camions,  ambulances,  smart  red-and-white-marked 
staff   automobiles,   soldiers  in  every   conceivable  state 

1  Prisonnier  de  Guerre. 
195 


MY    LORRAINE   JOURNAL 

of  soul  and  body,  "enduring  their  going  hence  even  as 
their  coming  hither."  English,  Americans,  Senegalese, 
Annamites — a  dozen  races  swell  this  Gallic  flood,  and 
the  Gray  Sisters  never  so  busy  since  the  world  began. 

Paris,  January  yth,  1918. 

I  am  waiting  to  know  from  one  of  the  most  charming 
of  the  sons  of  Gaul,  who  has  promised  to  be  my  inter- 
cessor before  the  powers  that  be,  whether  I  am  to  go  to 
my  front — our  front — now  or  not.  If,  asAmiel  says,  "Eire 
pret,  c'est  partir,"  then  I  am  already  off. 


FINIS 


If 

]S3 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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